Music fills my ears to the brim, as if the Chopin were water cascading off my turn table, drizzling off the nightstand, and rushing into my ears. My hands move swiftly through the air, stirring the dust ever so slightly.
My hands move sharply and fastly with the slim layers of "flesh jerky" as I have taken to calling them, rolling it up and popping it in my mouth fast enough to resume humming and sweeping the air. The motion is machine-like and almost automatic, I never even open my eyes.
I slip back under the silk covers, shut my eyes and go to rest.
A shrill laugh escapes from Mrs. Glyker's chest, and the air is forced out highly, as if a scream. Her hands fall down hard on the table, each piece of silverware rattles. Her husband sits across from me. They are both attractive people, in the lightest sense of the word. Both very average. They blend in. I watch the way their hands move, jerky and inconsistent, and try to mimic their suburban status quo. Their voices are husky, mine has a rusty, metallic smoothness.
"And she says, no!" This is the basis for even more laughter, the words coming this time from Mr. Glyker. I'm not sure where the decision to have them for dinner came from, it just seemed normal to have new neighbors over for a greetings dinner.
The oven dings loudly, interrupting her frankly very dull anecdote about some farm that I have no intention of paying attention to.
"Let me know what you think of the meat. It's supposed to be very lean."
"What exactly is it, Mr. Lecter?"
"Veal." I say, almost too quickly. "I got it at a farmer's market, maybe thirty minutes from here. I hear it's ... excellent." I scoop a large serving on each dish, and sit back down, watching them as they both pile their forks, take hearty beats, and nod in pleasure.
"It's delicious."