Gluttony
A year after they were married, she had made him rabbit stew. She remembers standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up while the radio played Celine Dion. It had been late afternoon, a quarter to six. Her knife was sharp, slicing diligently, the meat falling apart into evenly thin red strips. The stew was beginning to boil, releasing a rich aroma of carrots, potatoes and thick, creamy sauce. Over the radio, she heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A key turns in the lock and he enters, calling her name. She smiles and turns, arms open; they share a passionate kiss.
"Whatever you're making dear, it's smells delicious." A woman enters - his sister, her sister-in-law. They embrace. She can hear the sound of raucous laughter in the living room. His friends are here too, of course. They've all been invited to dinner.
"Why don't you have a drink first?" She asks gaily - the perfect host. "Dinner will be ready soon."
At half past six, dinner was served. Her guests ate and praised her cooking - "Your stew is delicious! Rabbit, isn't it?" - and have coffee afterwards.
Her husband had always been a lover of meats. He especially enjoyed them tender but firm, semi-cooked. As the wife, she obliged. Meat was duly served every evening, thick and chunky, tender and firm, and always semi-cooked.
The rabbit had been their own, a wedding gift. It had been tiny when they brought it home. Her husband had loved it, petted it and caressed it and kissed its little nose. When the rabbit grew older, it was much stronger, a sprightly creature with a little excess fat from over-eating. And of course, it had the best meat - the most tender and most firm and God, it was delicious.
They had slit its throat the previous evening. The rabbit never saw it coming.
-x-
A year and a half into their marriage, she had become pregnant. When she told him, he lifted her into the air, spinning her around and the happy couple cried tears of joy, hugging and kissing and thanking the heavens for this precious, precious gift.
The child turned out to be a boy, a soft, tender little thing with the pinkest of lips and rosiest of cheeks.
The son became the center of their world. He was a bright, precocious child, a pet of the teachers for his natural talents. The son grew well, and he grew strong. At eighteen, he towered above both his parents, strong, muscular and handsome, the fantasies of all the girls who knew him. He was so young, and so handsome, and oh, he was so tender, and so firm, and so delicious.
The son came home one day. The son came home, a light in his eyes, and a spring in his step. And she jumps, strikes him on the back of his head with a bronze statue. Then, the husband goes to work, slicing open his throat, removing the organs and carving the flesh, exactly as one may do a pig or cow or goat. And when it is all done, she picks up a letter the son had dropped to the floor.
"Dear," she says casually, "did you know he was going to Oxford?"
"Oh really?" The husband says surprised. "I did not know."
"Well, it says here he got accepted." She says, shaking the letter. "Too bad he won't be able to go now, huh?"
Guests are coming again the next day, the colleagues, and the friends and the in-laws.
It is a quarter to six, and she is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, and the radio is once again playing Celine Dion. Her knife is sharp, it slices diligently, the meat falling apart in neat thin strips. The stew boils, the car pulls into the driveway, he enters and they kiss.
Dinner is served, and the guests sit down to eat. They praise her cooking - "Delicious! Marvelous! Absolutely fantastic!"
"Where is your son?" Asks the manager.
"Oh he's at dinner with friends!" Laughs the husband. He lifts his glass to toast. The manager obliges. They drink