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Felix came home from work a little before 6pm. He would put his jacket up, his briefcase down, and slump into his favorite chair (a green loveseat, sunken from too many years of love) while flicking the telly on, waiting for the martini that Beatrice always brought him. When she did bring it, he would smile at her gratefully and she would smile back, kissing his cheek wetly. Sometimes, in his youthful vigor, this kiss would stimulate him, and he would take her into the kitchen and have her, right in the middle of making dinner. She loved it.

They would eat dinner. He would describe his day. The endless government bureaucracy of such a small town fascinated her; she couldn’t believe the tangled web he had to navigate every day. He found her childish curiosity both alluring and empowering. Here was someone who found his banal existence unfathomable and exotic. So they kept each other company, each complimented by the other’s appreciation.

Of course, while Beatrice enjoyed dinner and the conversation (and the occasional shag), she adored sleeping with him. Sometimes they would make love again, but every night he would wrap his strong arms around her, pull her against him, kiss her neck softly, and fall asleep. Feeling his strength, smelling his breath, being enveloped by his warmth — all these things convinced her that the world was right, life was good, and she would do anything for this man.

He would wake up quietly and head to work; she would sleep in, often spending the late morning still in a trance from his presence. Then she’d go do errands, come home, and prepare dinner. She would think about him. How could she please him tonight? She relished the long sessions of brainstorming.

Life was good. Life is great. Life will be fucking amazing. Yes!

The Hundred Days

Beatrice woke up, unsure of what to do. Felix’s body lay rotting in the corner, and she found herself stifling her gag reflex, and then getting mad at herself. This hadn’t been a person, had it? He had been a machine, using her, robbing her of her own humanity. He had fed on her. Still, she went over to him, and picked up his bloody body, moving it to the one chair in the room.

Then she sat at the edge of the bed, and stared at him. She adjusted his hands. She pushed his head backwards, but it just rolled against his back, like a sack of quarters.

Taking money from his pockets, she went shopping for food, and brought it back. She made two sandwiches, and placed one on his lap, like an offering to a god of old. After eating her sandwich, she sighed. He wasn’t going to eat his, was he. She let it stay there, and napped. When she woke up, she took his sandwich and ate it.

This routine went on for weeks. Over time, she cleaned off the blood, and dressed him up in various clothes. She would talk to him, about anything at all. The little boys (Ethan and Ben) that she had run into at the market. A new building was going up on the west part of town, and many were upset (the architecture was a more modern style, from some eastern continent that she had never heard of). She would walk around town, shop, eat, and then talk to Felix.

One especially cold night, she woke up and, saying nothing to anyone at all, took his motionless body, laid it down in the bed, and then pressed her back into his still chest. She fell asleep like that, cradled in his dead arms.