Dating : Short Story: A Moist Supper

Placing his briefcase on the checker-board floor, Arnold slouches over the counter, nestling himself on a red cushioned stool.

“Grilled chicken sandwich?”, asks Sarah. Poorly stacking plastic cups — facing the other way.

Cheerfully smiling, “you know it”.

Glancing down the counter, Arnold notices a young women drooling wide eyed down into her soup. Concerned, he walks over and taps her shoulder, “miss you OK?”.

Quivering — face melting like wax; oozing into her bowl — she pivots her head and lets on a pained smile.

Shaken, stumbling — knocking back stools — he falls to the ground, “s…ss… SARAH!”.

A ominous unworldly voice replies, “What! you don’t like a girl with make-up?!”.

Slowly rising, arms shuddering — sweat accumulating — he looks at Sarah.

She stands oriented towards him — nose sunken into skull; lips stretched, sticking to her uniform; upper body collapsing — misshapen, revolting.

“What is happening?!”, he trembles.

Nauseated, turning to leave — cloaked arms swing around him from behind — securing him in position. Weakness overcomes him as he looks over the counter into a reflection.

Black dilated pupils— long wet wavy hair — cracking pale face; sinisterly murmuring into his ear. “I just wanted you to know…this is…no dream!”.

Fixated Arnold stares on in horror as pain ripples across his body . Skin and muscle trickling, pulling apart ; gurgling his teeth he lets out a cry, “uh…urghh aaahhhgggggh!”.

A door bell dings.

Yawning a suited man approaches a counter.

Placing his briefcase on the checker-board floor, Arnold slouches over the counter, nestling himself on his red cushioned stool.

“Grilled chicken sandwich?”, asks Sarah — poorly stacking plastic cups — facing the other way.

Cheerfully smiling…face softly dripping, “you know it”.