Lenka

I guess the first clue I had to Lenka’s true identity was the skull piles. I’d try to bring them up casually every once in a while, but she’d always change the subject to something else, like the drapes in the kitchen, or the motif of the living room, which always struck her as “gaudy.”
    “Hey, uh, Lenka,” I’d say. “What’s with the skull piles?”
    “God!” she’d yell. “You know, it’s not a crime for a girl to have a life of her own! You don’t own me!” and so forth, until I found myself stumbling over hurried apologies. “You’re right,” I’d say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
    But, as piles of human skulls sometimes will, the skull piles would weigh on my mind. We’d always find ourselves in the same argument again the next day.
    The skull piles weren’t the only thing. There were also all those blood-stained plastic sheets, and those newspaper clippings detailing gruesome stories of murder and cannibalism, that she kept in her lingerie drawer. Then there was that time she sat me down and said, “I need to talk to you.”
    I tuned her out, as something good was on television, but I’m pretty sure I heard the words, “intestines,” “streamers,” and “blood orgy.” When the commercials came on, I said, “So tell me again, what’s with the skull piles?” and she left the room in a huff.
    Why I didn’t leave her when I was 99.9 percent sure she routinely and viciously murdered strangers and feasted on their gooey insides, I don’t know*. When I did finally leave, she whispered goodbye and kissed me on the lips. It tasted like person.
    Even now I think about her. What she’s doing, who she’s eating. When the authorities are going to figure out her twisted game. And what was with all those skulls?
    (*The sex. I’m pretty sure it was the sex.)