Marinated - Sam Moe
He’s not there when you first arrive, and you think to yourself of leaving, of jumping off the beautiful balcony and swimming off to sea with the sharks, hiding within the edge of the garden terrace, filling yourself with bright green pines and ivy half-frozen from winter, maybe dead, maybe plastic. Just a hop-skip into the beyond where slimy oysters rest below the surface, beautiful smooth-tailed great whites and mermaids, hours would go by before anyone noticed you were gone, if you were lucky a god might turn you into a jellyfish, if unlucky, you’d be an empty glass beer bottle, brittle, filled with too-salty water and barnacle spores.
There is a table filled with popcorn kernels coated in bits of carrots, onions, lemon peels and cheese, a plate of Oyster Rockefellers filled with so many ingredients you can barely count, yes Romano cheese, yes jelly, salt, spinach and diced cucumber, pink and yellow onions, caramel and lemon juice, cubes of quickly melting ice, compound butter, baked to perfection. You think those small spoons would be good for something. Don’t share this with your colleagues, who have only ever known you as Sabine, never Sabrina, your past life tucked away in a palmier, exes decaying in jail, the time you sold gold when you could barely find money to eat, and all those evenings spread on someone else’s bed, only needing a place to sleep and maybe some water, hungover, the owner of the house lost in some other room with wallpaper the color and texture of lobster claws.
To call it a crush would do a great disservice to both of you. It’s more like a decay, the way your heart pops in your throat at the thought of him, toasty and so sharp it’s halved your heart into two clean discs.
He arrives late, doesn’t tell you he’s there but you can feel him, more fox than human, smelling of coconut and rum, bearing plates of angel food cake and cheese dip coated with almonds and apple slices. The hostess, Jeanne, is a woman you’ve worked under for years. She is cheating on her husband with not one but two of your colleagues, kisses your frosted crush on the cheek, and you think, no, she tugs his blazer lapel, takes that navy blue in her soft hand and gives it a little yank. He’s unbothered, asking with that ridiculous voice of his where to put the food.
You tuck your body behind stonecrop and peony, coneflower coated in blue frost turning everything purple, even the coral bells have turned lilac from the chill. Your thick pea coat, a parting gift from your late grandmother, is big enough to fit your dress and sweater, your thick bracelets with fake rhinestones, and you could probably hide a glass or two in there without anyone noticing. Your scarf, made of black yarn, is so tight around your neck it feels like a python instead of dress. You consider this, too, as an option—asphyxiating on the rose-hued brick, might your fall even give you a nosebleed, anything for him to arrive with handkerchief in hand, his veiny hand pressing against your delicate features, hallelujah, you’re okay, to be certain he scoops you into his arms and takes you to the top floor where the guest rooms are, where you’ll eventually fall asleep, curled around each other like cats.
Instead, he heads towards the wine, popping pecan pinwheels in his mouth like they’re small chocolates, uncorking an expensive bottle whose name you can barely read from the frosted glass door.
Out exits his friend, a hunter of foxes and wolves alike, would eat your crush alive if he knew it existed, might save your heart and lungs for last, chew on your limbs, dip your bones in tzatziki and shrimp sauce, licking everything clean.
Hey, he says, as if this is another ordinary party. Hey as if you’re not hiding from the others in the cold, hey with the intention of ripping the buttons off your coat.
What are you doing out here?
He chews this question over, takes a sip of his drink, whiskey with one ice cube, hand gripping too tightly, the faintest traces of a bite mark fading on his white skin. You wonder if he is one of Jeanne’s lovers, resolve to ask him after he’s sufficiently had too much to drink, think better of it. How many times have you been in the same circumstances, where hungry men with no boundaries hovered over your body. You squeeze your eyes shut at the intrusive memories, shake your head as if you can shake them away.
He doesn’t ask if you’re okay, just offers you his drink. You tell him to take a sip first, which he does, so you down the rest. He asks if you want to head inside to warm your fingers and you oblige.
The living room is too hot, amber-toned and layered. There are staircases leading to small landings, beyond leading to bedrooms, second and third floors. You think, this house is a menace, this house is a poorly constructed fable, this house is going to eat me alive.
Jeanne asks if you want a tour, grabs your wrist, doesn’t wait for your answer, and you want to scream but know you can’t, no one would understand, you recall your friends asking why you went into the house in the first place if you knew what the consequences would be?
There are pear puffs, pecans, medium-rare meatballs dripping with honey glaze. Crepes, salsa, portobello mushrooms glazed with butter.
Salmon mousse and stuffed bacon bites, herbs and potatoes twice baked with cheese, the ham has been cut into hearts, the blue cheese is the color of a sea and there is a bean dip so deep and warm you wonder if you might bathe inside of it.
You hold Jeanne’s hand. She beckons for him, come here, handsome, if I weren’t taken I’d eat you alive, onto the first floor, the three of you holding onto each other like lost children gravitating towards Neverland. You wonder if Peter Pan would fall in love with too many people, if there were other lost girls around to fall in love with. Eventually he forgets about the forest, discards magic, no more eating grapes off logs and fishing for crabs in the sunshine-speckled sea with his brothers.
Silk curtains, handmade tiles, there are purple-leaf plants and pots of potpourri smelling of vanilla. Still, underneath all the earth tones and dessert scents, you can sense his aftershave, occasionally catch his smile as he turns to you, the two of you still being held onto by Jeanne, laughing like you’re sharing a private joke.
Jeanne doesn’t notice, though she grips your hand tighter as you cross over the threshold into the old part of the house.
There are still hauntings, she whispers to the two of you.
He nods approvingly, as if he were responsible for these ghosts, poltergeists with grudges, pissed off deities doing their bidding.
Sounds terrifying, you comment.
Jeanne nods. It is. They tried to kill my husband once—he almost tripped off the balcony and into the sea. Can you imagine falling on all those jagged rocks? He’d be eaten alive or worse. Neither of you ask what could possibly be worse than being eaten alive.
You’re walking faster now, almost taking off into a run. The second half of the house is a shadow of the first, this dining room empty, still familiar, the kitchen devoid of food, the only working refrigerator a clone of its sister, but in cherry red. Designed for multiple families, Jeanne is explaining, but you’re distracted by footsteps running in the opposite direction, fear carving a home in your mind, what if you’re the intruders, destined to starve and hunt the abandoned half of your boss’s house?
Your questions dissipate like ocean foam. Jeanne takes you up to the second floor. This floor is dim, hallways filled with spiderwebs of varying wax hues; pink, lilac, crystal blue, the spiders eat bits of sugar cookie, dropping crystals on the floor. The footsteps continue in the opposite direction. At last, she lets go of your hands.
Honey? she calls out. A muffled response, brief sob, and Jeanne is gone, leaving the two of you alone.
This is some house, you comment.
He turns to you, finally, and you feel your face grow hot, cursing your constant embarrassment. His eyes, crow feet at the sides, light brown skin with not one but two dimples, tattoo of a spiral peeking from the V-neck in his dress shirt, you want to take him to threads, to buttons, to bed, rip his flesh off and eat it, you want an aspirin.
You okay? His voice an echo of itself.
You okay? You okay, you oaky, you, oak, you-you, the hallway seems to call out. Large trees grow from the walls, slowly at first, then quickly, their leaves taking over chandeliers, the spiders are unperturbed.
Guess this is what she meant by haunted, he’s saying, inspecting one of the old oaks upon which sits an owl. Funny little thing with wings.
Perhaps it was designed this way, you slur, your body feeling chemical, pained, not unlike the sharp point of a needle.
The ceiling fills with cicadas, blue flies, beetles the color of gemstones. You take off your coat, too stuffy with all the forest encroaching on your space, stumble into his arms. He compliments your sweater, steadies you, tightens his grip in a way that is more terrified than enamored. You wonder why you never did this sooner, asked Jeanne to show the two of you around her tricky mansion with its ever-changing halls, Jeanne who has run off to tend to one of her many partners, Jeanne with the mule deer obsession, antlers hanging in almost every room.
He leans towards you and you think, this is the moment, he’s going to kiss you. He takes your face in his hands and strokes. You place your hands on his shoulders, only slightly alarmed your fingers have fused together into cloven hooves, your wrists are brown fur, there is even a hungry tick crawling up your left sleeve. His nose pressed against you, cold, crooked teeth growing in the wrong way, ears taking in twice the amount of sound, head heavy with itchy antlers you long to scrape against a tree, then you think better of it, mustn’t get blood all over his outfit, his shiny dress shoes.
Heart of your heart becomes untethered, a range of emotions sifting through your mind, including, but not limited to: fear, hunger, longing for pepper fields and pork, those beef pot stickers Carolyn brought, pastry shells, figs and honey, the birds went south for the winter so you’ll be alone when the first snow falls, you’ll eat cold berries and long for thick wedges of caprese, mozzarella and cheese, beautiful blistering basil leaves, parties you attended still wearing human heels, waffles glazed with too much maple syrup but it didn’t matter, you’d happily beg for seconds and thirds, if only you could talk.
He kisses you anyway, and his kiss is sharp, cheeks coated in orange fur, black ears, shimmering white fur on his chest, tattoos still there, circular and precise, the spiral from his favorite novel about the human-eating house, this spiral is a love story, this spiral is decay, this spiral is a last-ditch attempt at finding a way out. You’re just two animals falling to the floor, a woman named Jeanne a thing of your past, you run side-by-side amongst the twisted trees and beyond that, wallpaper, cerulean and stamped with silver-foil mermaids. The spiders think you are hilarious, you can hear the songs of centipedes, you are so far from your old heart, even the owl is entertained.
There is no way out, just laughter from the first floor, clinking glasses, a slurred speech. The canapés will be gone by now, firecracker green peppers, deviled eggs holding yolk as bright as the sun, small shrimp like pink babies, he won’t get to eat the quiche you spent hours cooking, what does it matter, the crostini coated with currants and goat cheese, hothouse tomatoes and New Orleans oysters, regret is the thing with a wing, salted pork, wrapped figs, your heart is mousse, tart, out of season.
As you round the corner, the hunter appears with an arrow, so pink it looks like a heart you’ve seen on cartoons, he wore his hunting gear to the party and you didn’t think it strange, he has a bag filled with other transformed animals, it still squirms, you were never good at understanding death.
First comes agitation, pit of your stomach in the shape of longing. You think, randomly, of bananas. Your mouth tastes like fish, humidity, vaguely of button mushrooms. Is this what it’s like to be a crab in a crate? A lobster snatched from the cove, a pig stolen from its truffle hunt, fussy and marinated in agitation. You are nothing but a game. He is going to wrap you in puff pastry, you can only hope not next to asparagus or hot dogs. Your love will be a thoughtless appetizer, coated in sugar granules, the spiders are for the ricotta and pesto, Jeanne’s jewel beetles will line the icebox cakes, everything made from scratch, everyone prized for their dairy.
Your muzzle is bleeding. Your partner is freezing, leaving, his paws twitching and scratching as he is dragged across the hardwood floors into the bag of that man. No one remembers their names. No one remembers ice cream or eggs. Even though you are eaten ten times, your spirit remains trapped in the house, tipping over hot cocoa water, crunching on coffee beans in Jeanne’s ear at lunch. She is so pissed off she hires an exorcist. He, too, is swallowed, baked into an apple pie. On its surface are letters made from pie crust: richness, loving, butter man, house, frosted, cheater, nostalgia, Black Forest cake, destiny.
Jeanne falls in love with so many people in the English department they crown her the head. Strangers bring her strawberry cakes coated in edible pink glitter, baby rhubarb, miniature strawberries. She hires the hunter to steal as many hearts and veins as possible, keeping rows of professor’s obsessions on her shelves, their dissertations in jars, their favorite gel pens bled dry, their chest cavities filled with milk, cream cheese, pudding, banana cake, brownies, and on good days, no-bake peppermint pie that makes everyone’s breath taste chilly, each time they kiss, Jeanne releases a breath of cold, candied air.
Originally accepted by now-defunct Fleas on the Dog on December 21st, 2023
Sam Moe is the author of two poetry books, with two more forthcoming in 2024: Animal Heart (3-Day Chapbook Contest) and Cicatrizing the Daughters (FlowerSong Press) and she has received fellowships from Longleaf Writer’s Conference and Key West Literary Seminar, as well as writing residencies from VCCA and Château d’Orquevaux. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Texas Review, Southeast Review, Westchester Review, and others.
