Ribs

 

 

Spare change?

 

Eyes fixated on an imaginary point ahead, the host moved on.

 

Ignored him.

 

Thought about her guests.

 

How to prepare for their visit.

 

 

Barbaric.

 

He thought.

 

She couldn’t even look him in the eye.

 

Couldn’t see the juice, the tears, the potential

 

 

He saw.

 

In the fat around her waist.

 

The opportunity.

 

An invitation.

 

Flavoured, succulent.

 

Perhaps with some added spice.

 

She was oozing with it.

 

Full of it.

 

Full of herself.

 

 

Ribs please?

 

Preferably pork.

 

Not keen on the beef, thanks.

 

House-warming. And.

 

It’s too wet for a barbecue today.

 

Pre-cooked?

 

Even better.

 

Haven’t got time to roast them.

 

Not in my oven.

 

The kitchen’s being decorated, you see.

 

Waiting for the new tiles.

 

Bit of a mess.

 

Really.

 

 

The guest.

 

Observed the steel tray.

 

The tin foil lining.

 

The bones, with dark bloodied centres.

 

Meat burnt to a crisp.

 

Source?

 

Unidentifiable.

 

Human?

 

Cow?

 

Pig?

 

Dog?

 

 

And helped herself to a slice.

 

Of pizza.

 

Trying not to think about.

 

The ribs being prised apart.

 

Splayed out.

 

Fanned out.

 

Roasted.

 

And consumed.

 

 

More pizza?

 

Yes please.

 

 

There didn’t need to be any waste.

 

The dogs would chew on the bones.

 

Nothing would be left.

 

 

Spare ribs?

 

No.

 

 

Spare change?

 

No.

 

 

Another female.

 

Walked on past.

 

Ignored him.

 

 

Was this life?

 

All this.

 

From a single leftover rib?

 

Better to devour.

 

It.
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool


Source: The ‘ribs’ photograph is a creative commons image  from Pixabay

 

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