Hunger

He swallowed her whole, one gulp. She slithered down his gullet, settled in his stomach. She was, he thought, where she belonged. Resting his hands, fingers laced, on his tummy, he leaned back in his spindled chair, closed his eyes and imagined her deep inside him, curled, perhaps, like a shrimp.

She didn't stay quiet. Before long he felt a rumple, followed by a burp. He leapt up, the chair, falling back, clattering onto the hardwood. Sweat slicked his face. He stumbled toward the bathroom, but she crawled into his throat. Pulled herself onto his tongue. He coughed and doubled over, gagged. She did not come out.

He felt her reach up into his sinus cavity like spelunker, a hand grabbing the inside his nose, her foot digging and she turned into mist and passed through into his, to be absorbed by his amygdala.

An ache, thin and electric, shimmered through him and he sank on to the bathroom tile, eyes closed. He had wanted her, he had eaten her like an oyster, and now she was content.