Present

I finished in her throat, held her there until she swallowed, then pulled out.

She stayed on her knees, breathing hard, chin wet. I didn’t look at her long.

I walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a container of leftovers from two nights ago — cold rice, some dried-out chicken, a little sauce that had separated. I didn’t bother heating any of it. I just walked back, tilted the container, and dumped the whole thing on the kitchen floor in front of her.

“Eat.”

She stared at the mess for a second.

I waited.

She leaned forward and started eating it off the floor with her mouth. No hands. Cold, congealed, leftover food. I watched long enough to make sure she was doing it, then turned and walked to the bedroom to change.

I took my time. Fresh shirt, jeans, boots. When I came back she was still on the floor, most of the food gone, some of it smeared on her chin and chest.

I stopped in front of her.

“Open.”

She opened her mouth. I spat into it, slow and deliberate, then watched her throat work as she swallowed.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and dropped it on the floor next to what was left of the food.

“Thanks for the service,” I said, completely calm. “You can see yourself out.”

I picked up my keys and phone and walked past her toward the front door without looking back.