piggy
After we got married, my wife began to eat my hair. I thought it was an eating disorder, but she told me that trichophagia involves eating your own hair and not someone else’s. She said she just couldn’t help herself; apparently, I tasted like chocolate cake. I plucked a hair and tried it myself, but it didn’t taste like anything. I thought it was like that thing about tickling: you can’t tickle yourself, so maybe you can’t tell if you taste like dessert. Mariana kept licking my head, usually when we were watching TV or just before bed. It was strange but it didn’t bother me. It had been a long, lonely life, and it felt good to be loved.
Right after the wedding, Mariana started her residency, and a publisher gave me an advance to work on my graphic novel. But I had also promised to paint the house and put up new shelves and repair the car. I always had dinner waiting when Mariana came back, her face pale and tragic from dealing with all the medical crises of the day. I did all this while working on my novel and turning out cartoons—I’d just sold one to the New Yorker—so when I noticed I was going bald, I thought it was the stress. Not long after, I found a bag of my hair in Mariana’s lunch bag, and I realized she’d been taking snacks to work.
“I kept finding it on your pillow,” she said, shrugging. “It was just going to get thrown out.”
“It’s not growing back,” I sighed. “I guess I’m an old man.”
“Thank God I’ve been keeping a stash,” said Mariana. “I didn’t realize it was a precious commodity.”
I didn’t like my new look. My grandfather had died with a full head of silver, and I always thought I would be the same. I could have worn a toupee, but that would have meant confronting my vanity, and I didn’t like admitting I cared about my looks. I transferred my irritation to my characters—if I had to suffer, they would too. Mariana would often run a hand over my scalp. She studied it like a field gone fallow; she had lost her favorite crop.
*
Whenever my parents fought, it was always about food. They would have been happy ordering takeout every night, but they couldn’t afford such things, so I grew up on canned soup and frozen dinners. The less effort it took, the more my parents liked it. At first, I enjoyed this parade of pizzas and microwave meals, but by the time I was eleven, I blamed it for my acne and soft belly. I asked if we could eat something else, and my mother told me I could eat anything I could make.
I went out and bought a cookbook. I didn’t realize that cookbooks weren’t like novels and you didn’t need to read them from page one. I thought you couldn’t move on to the next recipe until you had mastered the first one. I spent weeks eating only soups and appetizers. My parents laughed at me, but they didn’t care. Having me cook for them was even less effort than putting something in the microwave, so they ate soups and appetizers too.
I cooked for them for the rest of the years I lived with them. When it came time for art school, they begged me to go somewhere nearby so I could keep living at home. I relented, even though what I really wanted was to study at some faraway school like the Royal College of Art. When I graduated, my parents offered to let me live there rent free, and again I relented. I got a job as a graphic designer and kept my parents’ kitchen stocked. I might have stayed with them forever, but within the span of a year, they each suddenly died of cardiac arrest. I was left with the house, a fully-equipped kitchen, and a library of cookbooks I knew by heart. I took no pleasure in cooking for myself; after so many years, I needed to cook for someone else. I made this the first line of my dating profile. Mariana was the first girl to write back.
*
In the spring, I woke to a wet sensation around my feet and a slurping sound, the sort I made when, as a boy, I sucked my thumb. Mariana was under the sheets and had my pinky toe in her mouth.
“This little piggy!” she said. “I could just gobble it up.”
I asked if I still tasted like chocolate cake.
“It’s peppermint!” she said, and gave me a hearty lick.
I lied there until she was done and then went to shower. I had a meeting with my publisher. Mariana kept texting while I was in the waiting room until, at last, I put the phone on mute. On my way home, I picked up a bag of peppermint suckers, but she wasn’t interested. When I sat down to watch the ballgame, she came to the couch and swung my feet onto her lap. She clipped the nails and buffed the cuticles and rubbed lotion into the cracks. Then she sucked on two of my toes while Toronto struggled to beat Detroit.
“Why don’t I get you a snack?” I said.
“I know, I’m so weird. You’re ashamed of me.”
“I never said that.”
“You think I’m a freak and you’re going to leave me.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Mariana. Do I really taste that good?”
“You’re delicious.”
“Maybe I should taste you.”
Mariana kept her feet in good condition, but I didn’t taste peppermint. I just tasted feet. I gave up and we returned to our original positions. Mariana kept sucking and I kept trying to watch the game. I decided this was what you did when you were in love. It bothered me now, but if she ever left me, it would probably be the thing I’d miss most.
I started taking special care of my feet. I soaked them while I was at my drawing table and went for pedicures. I asked the pedicurist if she had ever heard of feet tasting like peppermint, but she shook her head and said it might be my soap. Then I asked if there was anything remarkable about my feet. She told me they were pretty average, except my toes seemed small given my size. I took a closer look. She was right. My pinky toe had always been long, but now it was dwindling and my other toes were withered. When I got home, I tried on an old pair of shoes I had never thrown out even though they pinched and found I could wear them without pain.
That night, when Mariana went for my feet, I tried tucking them away.
“Are you sick?” she said.
“I just think we should take a break.”
“Do you know how hard I work all day? I look forward to this.”
I sighed and unfolded my legs. Mariana dove at me with delight. I decided I was imagining the shrinking of my feet. There was probably something wrong with my eyes. Maybe she needed new types of food. On our first date, I had made Colombian food. I was vegan at the time, but she was craving meat, and I was anxious to make a good impression. I was twenty-five and had never had a girlfriend or been on many dates.
“If food be the music of life, play on!” Mariana had said.
“I think you have that backward.”
“I don’t think so. Have you ever listened to a restaurant? The kitchen. The diners. Chewing and smacking and all those burps. It’s the sound of life.”
Remarks like these made me fall for her.
At the hospital, she had to dress professionally, so she liked to be grandiose when we went out on the town. She wore loud dresses and the highest of heels. Long fake nails and great hoops for earrings. And she appreciated my cooking. My parents had been intellects; a meal was just what they did to kill time between one idea and the next. But Mariana had a glorious metabolism. Despite the eating, she never seemed to gain weight. I kept cooking for her, and she kept asking for new flavors. Thai. Peruvian.
“Once I eat something up, I’m done,” Mariana had said. “I eat a country and then I move on.”
So that had to be it, I thought now as she sucked my toes. She was bored with the menu; we had eaten the globe. Our one-year anniversary was coming up. I would make things she hadn’t had before and feed whatever void she was trying to fill.
*
We planned a great party and I cooked a feast of things I hadn’t made before. Duck curry. Kobe beef sushi. It was hard, since I was limping around—by then, the toes on my left foot were mostly gone.
“So what was it that ran you over?” my friend Bronte asked me.
“A neighbor’s car,” I said. “They backed up over my foot and that was that.”
Bronte frowned. We’d grown up together, and I could tell he wasn’t buying it. I had a prosthetic shoe that made a clomping sound as I moved through the kitchen. From the other room, Mariana’s laugh filled the house. Most of the people there were her friends. Bronte was the only one there for me.
“You’d tell me if something was going on, right?”
“Nothing’s going on, man. It was just bad luck.”
“How’s the book?”
“It’s not progressing,” I confessed. “Mariana thinks I should give back the advance.”
“You can’t do that. From what you told me, it’s really good.”
I liked that he thought so. After my parents died, I started thinking about a graphic memoir like Fun Home or Persepolis. Once I started publishing in The New Yorker, I was able to get someone to hear my pitch. The idea was that it would go from my childhood until right before I started seeing Mariana (she always said that meant I was leaving out the best part). I tried showing her my early drafts, but she wasn’t impressed, and I kept throwing out the drawings and starting again. I had missed two deadlines; the issues with my foot hadn’t helped.
“Send me what you have,” Bronte said. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”
That night, after we settled into bed, Mariana went down on me—all the way down to my right foot. Apparently, my left foot had been the only one to taste like peppermint. My right tasted like coconut. This time, Mariana wasn’t interested in my toes and attacked the heel, licking it like the nub of an ice cream cone.
“Bronte’s going to look at my book,” I said.
“I don’t like him,” she said between licks.
“He’s my best friend.”
She changed her angle and ran her tongue along the arch of my foot. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but he’s sent me messages. Nothing explicit, of course, but he’s made his intentions clear.”
“His intentions?”
“He has a thing for me. He’d love it if we broke up.”
“Can I see the messages?”
“I deleted them. I didn’t want to embarrass him, and I know you’re close friends.” The room was silent except for the sound of her gnawing gently on my Achilles’ tendon.
A few days later, Bronte sent an email about the book. He was full of praise, and though he had some constructive thoughts, he wanted me to promise not to quit. Bronte worked in publishing, so he was speaking from experience.
“Don’t let Mariana color your opinions,” he said. “Art isn’t really her thing.”
It was a casual remark, but it bothered me. If art wasn’t her thing, what would that say about us? I was an artist; aside from cooking, art was all I had. Besides, Mariana was cultured. Her opinion was just as valid as Bronte’s. I read the email again and found it conniving. Everything was the exact opposite of what Mariana had said. Why was he trying to get me to side with him over her?
I didn’t reply right away, and after a while, the email got buried in my inbox. When he texted to get together, I told him I was busy. A month later, I told my editor I couldn’t finish the book and gave back the advance. I stopped making cartoons and got my old job back doing graphic design. It was good money, and I could work sitting down. Most importantly, it had health insurance. My right foot was depleting; I could hardly stand on it at all.
*
We had always talked about children, but after many months of trying, we had to admit it wasn’t working. When I suggested a fertility clinic, Mariana broke into tears—she thought I was implying the problem was with her. To placate her, I went to the doctor first. I hadn’t seen him in a while, though I had been using a wheelchair ever since Mariana licked my right foot down to a nub. I hadn’t told him about this. There had been no pain, and each time I had thought about making an appointment, Mariana gave me some reason to put it off.
“It was an accident,” I said vaguely. “Nothing to be done.”
“Tell me what’s going on with you,” said my doctor.
“The only thing that’s going on is that I can’t get my wife pregnant,” I said.
The tests came back with surprising news. I was running on empty. Like a man with a vasectomy, I had been emitting a worthless fluid. Mariana hugged me in my wheelchair and told me that it didn’t matter.
“Many people are just as happy without children,” she whispered in my ear. She stayed there for a time, gnawing on the lobe. I didn’t stop her. I had been terrified she would leave me, and it was a relief to feel her breath on my face.
Over the next few months, things between us were better than ever. There was no more pressure when we made love, and I didn’t mind that she kept feasting on me. She alternated between my calves and my fingers, depending on her mood. I went out of my way to keep her happy. I thought I owed her for not being able to give her a baby.
“I love you so much,” I said as she sucked on my ring finger. “Whenever I’m with you, I just can’t get enough.”
“I feel the same way,” she said.
Around this time, Bronte tried to get in touch. I never replied. One day, he showed up at the office. He was stunned to see me in my wheelchair. I kept my left hand hidden. I didn’t feel like explaining the bite marks and withered nails.
“You don’t look well,” said Bronte.
“I’m great. I’ve just been busy.”
“You’ve been ignoring me.”
I sighed. “I know you’re jealous of me and Mariana. It just made everything too hard.”
“Jealous?” Bronte laughed. “I’m not jealous, man. I’m worried. Look at yourself.”
“I’ve never been happier in my life.”
Bronte looked sad. I decided it was because he still had a crush on Mariana and had been hoping I would tell him we were falling apart. Even so, it was hard to see him go. He said that he wouldn’t bother me again. I had a feeling we were done.
I didn’t tell Mariana about the encounter, but I thought about it later as she kissed different parts of my remaining body. Each time, she smacked her lips and identified the tastes. My biceps were strawberries. My back was buttercream. “And it’s all mine,” she kept saying. “I get to have you all to myself.”
*
For a time, I made sure she didn’t touch my right hand since I needed it to draw, but this only made her want it more.
“I’ll bet it’s the best part of you,” she said. “I’ll bet it tastes like heaven.”
“I need it to work,” I said.
“Do you know how much I make? You don’t need that silly job.”
“I can’t give up my work, Mariana.”
She nestled into me, toying with my right hand. “I would give up my job for you. If that was what you wanted. If you wanted to wrap me up and take care of me because it made you happy, I would let you. That’s how much I love you. But don’t worry about it. I guess it’s all right if you don’t love me the same.”
A few days later, I gave my notice. It was just as well—it was becoming hard to pilot the wheelchair and harder still to explain why so much of me had started to disappear. At home, Mariana set up a room in the house where I could be comfortable. I kept drawing for as long as I could, but she had started to nibble on the fingers of my right hand. She said that nothing about me tasted better than that hand; she wanted to ration it to make it last as long as she could.
“It’s like ambrosia,” she said.
“I can’t even cook for you anymore.”
“I don’t need you to. You’re the food of the gods.”
It was hard to object to her smile. “And you still love me? I still make you happy?”
“Deliriously happy,” said my wife. “You’re all mine.”
After that, everything started happening fast. Mariana was finishing her residency, and the stress of job hunting only made her want to eat. My legs disappeared and my arms shrank bit by bit. Soon it was impossible to take care of myself and I had to rely on Mariana for everything.
Since she worked long hours, I was left in bed with little means to care for myself. She carefully removed my organs, so I wasn’t hungry anymore. I never needed the bathroom, and once she had taken my lungs, I didn’t need to breathe. I clung to my heart so I would know I was loved, but eventually, she took that too.
*
When I was just a head, Mariana put me in the fridge so I wouldn’t spoil. That’s where I am now. Every now and then, she opens the door and picks at me, usually in the dead of night when she’s hungry and isn’t sure what she wants. She picks at my ears and cheeks and closes her eyes in delight as the taste goes through her. What do I taste like now? I want to ask but I can’t—she already took my tongue.
Sometimes, when the door opens, I get a glimpse of her life. After her residency, they offered her a permanent job at the hospital, and this meant she didn’t have to move. She has maintained my parents’ house, though she’s renovated and brought in new furniture. One night, she brought home a new friend, a man I didn’t know. By mistake, she left the fridge ajar and I could watch them at the table, feeding each other dim sum and drinking wine.
“My husband disappeared,” she told her friend. “It happened gradually at first, and then one day, I woke up and he was gone.”
“That’s terrible,” said the man.
“Yes, but I can’t say anything bad about him. He was devoted. To be loved that much is extraordinary. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again.”
It pleased me to hear her say this. She took his fingers to lick off some of the sauce. “You taste like gumdrops,” she whispered, and I noticed that she held the hand in place, allowing it to linger in her mouth as she released a sigh that was all too familiar, the great moan of pleasure that only comes from tasting something divine.
Joel Fishbane’s novel, The Thunder of Giants, is now available from St. Martin’s Press.
