Free I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like by Justin Isis Page A

careful never to show your teeth — for me assumed a sphinxlike quality.
    — You should come to my house, you said at last.
    — Won’t someone be home?
    — Not during the day.
    You lived closer to the city than I’d imagined. We rode the train to Asagaya and I followed you up the hill until we came to your doorstep. As we stepped over the threshold, I still expected someone to appear — your parents, or any siblings you hadn’t mentioned. I can’t imagine what I would have done had this happened, but you moved into the living room and turned on the lights, and there was no sound or movement. You showed me into your room, which was not decorated in the way you’d described. I’d expected a rat’s nest of treasures, all clothes and colors and posters; instead it had the genderless austerity of a hotel room. There were no photos, no personal items, just a bed, a mirror and a closet.
    — Where is everything? I asked.
    — In boxes under the bed.
    — Because of your father?
    — Yeah.
    There was another of your silences.
    — Well, show me something, I said.
    You went to the closet and took out a white plastic bag, then stopped and looked at me.
    — Do you want me to wear them?
    — What?
    You opened the bag and took out a dark blonde wig. A sudden gleam passed across its golden strands.
    — My clothes, you said. I could put them on...
    I nodded, but you continued looking at me expectantly.
    — Do you want me to leave the room? I asked.
    — Yeah.
    Outside, as I inspected the house (the photographs above the television: your father’s thin grey hair; your mother’s round and distant face), I felt a strange excitement, as if the door to your room was closing on a kind of tomb, a sacrificial chamber, and the person who emerged would be someone else entirely. When I at last heard a gentle knock from within, my excitement reached its height, and my hand trembled as I opened the door.
    You were standing by the window when I came in. I felt a terror at the sight of you. You were nothing like the parody of a girl I had feared; instead you stood transfigured in black leggings and the white one-piece you had shown me earlier. Your makeup was light, expertly applied, your light blue contacts matching your golden hair. There were faint white shadows around your eyes, their lashes outlined in black; but these details faded into the total impression of youthful beauty. You smiled shyly — the smile I have described as sphinxlike, which now seems the only appropriate description of you at that moment.
    — You’ll have to practice your walk, I said. I could think of nothing else to say.
    — I can do that already, you said. That’s easy. I always look at how girls walk.
    You crossed the room and stood before me. I watched your legs, your shoulders, the way you carried your weight. Here again I feared a kind of burlesque, that your movements would be stylized, excessively pronounced, but if anything you seemed more relaxed and less affected than before. Your posture and your walk had changed to match your appearance, had taken on a new lightness.
    I did not tell you that you were beautiful. Instead I took your hand and drew you down to the bed. You made no resistance.
    My thoughts on first loving you — really loving you — are more or less indescribable. It was painful for both of us, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. When it was over you were bleeding, and I wiped you off with a tissue. Still I couldn’t leave you alone. Enraptured with your cheeks, your knees, your shoulders, I wanted to kiss every part of you. Your bare arms had the thinness of a young girl’s; as I focused on them I thought of you as some fantastical being or angel. I had never imagined a joy like this could be possible.
    We lay together for what must have been hours, although it felt much shorter. We spoke at times, but mostly I held you in silence. At some point you got up and checked the time on your phone. Someone would be home soon,