She was born hungry and she died hungry.
But her hunger was in name only, for never once did she, between her birth and death, feel hungry. She ate things – delicious and exotic and expensive – but she did so only to be social, like a casual smoker casually smoking among friends. Alone, she did not eat; she felt no desire to do so.
She felt the effects of starvation. But she thought that this was her disposition. Indeed, she grew concerned when she did not feel this way.
She died, only, because I ended our relationship. She died, only, because I was not there to eat.
It took her but a week to starve.
During that same week, I feasted on the bodies of women as a display of sexual rebellion and fear. During that same week, my taste in disposable women became increasingly stringent: thinner and thinner, I demanded.
She died on a Friday, the same day that I unearthed and climbed into a coffin to lay with the skeleton of a woman, the same day I was shot for breaking the law, the same day I sold our companion burial plots to a young, attractive couple in love.