Here it comes, wet and meaty. I didn’t know what else to do with it but…man-handle it. Like a rotting chicken breast, it oozed between my fingers, never separating. What the fuck was I holding? This fountain of youth, this cure for all, this yolk that fed my child – it was nothing but a soggy rag. She had begged me to save it, but I knew I had to get rid of it.
Minutes later, she somehow came to and immediately asked where it was. I had no choice but to throw it in the cooler, and that’s the truth I told her. I’m direct. I’m no fucking liar.
Weeks passed, and I had forgotten about the frozen meat. This wasn’t another piece of venison sausage you wanted to fry up with your eggs. This was a disgusting byproduct of the beauty of creating life. I finally understood why so many people hate the egg yolk. I used to love the yolk. Now I can’t help but gag. But then she asked me about it. I knew I had to get rid of it.
“Sure, honey. It’s in the freeze, but maybe we should save it for another time.” And it was easy to convince her.
Her parents were coming. They knew I was an experimental chef. They knew to expect something weird. This was an opportunity. An escape.
I had made my decision. This evil soul freezing our lives away had to be delivered, and what better recipients than her parents. Her ignorant judgmental parents. I hoped they would love it.
He always hated that I couldn’t hunt. That I was nothing but an intellect. I was a man of my words. Finally, I could show him what it meant to be on the short end. Here’s your fucking red meat. And her mom. For fuck’s sake, she was a bitch. A raging hormonal cunt that deserved to be force-fed a bloody rag.
But I digress.
I made this meal with love. I love my girl. My love. My one. My soul. She wanted me to save the placenta. She wanted me to give it back. So this was my way of doing so. It was presented as cornish hen liver.
I wore the apron she gifted me for my 30th. Stir-fried with onion and spice with cumin, a side of red cabbage and pasta. This was a heavy meal, preceded by wine, soup, and salad. You had to be drunk for it. He took the first bite, apprehensively, and smiled. Said, “This is the best fucking liver I’ve ever had.”
I blushed.
“You can’t say that. You’ve only had one bite.”
And they dug in. They devoured. They didn’t leave a nibble.
And I looked into her eyes. She was happier than I was. I made her a child, I made her parents eat the yolk. I was her man. I love her, more than ever, now. And I could see this was the most she had ever loved me. There was no meat left, and we had none.
I man-handled her placenta.
