The badly was recent, and dreadful. The itch, the urge, the leaking tongue-it was absolutely dreadful.

He wasn’t sure when it had started. He was, though-he knew when he’d become aware.

— How d’you want your steak?

— Raw.

His wife had laughed. But he’d been telling her the truth. He wanted the slab of meat she was holding over the pan, raw and now-fuck the pan, it wasn’t needed. He could feel muscles holding him back, and other muscles fighting for him-neck muscles, jaw muscles.

Then he woke.

But he was awake already, still standing in the kitchen, looking at the steak, and looking forward to it.

— Rare, so, he said.

She smiled at him.

— You’re such a messer, she said.

He hid behind that, the fact that he acted the eejit, that it was him, as he bent down to the charred meat on the plate a few minutes later, and licked it. The kids copied him and they all ended up with brown gravy on their noses. He made himself forget about his aching jaws and the need to bite and growl. They all watched a DVD after dinner, and everything was grand.

And it was; it was fine. Life was normal. For a while. For quite a while. Weeks-he thought. He opened the fridge one day. There were two fillet steaks on a plate, waiting. It must have been weeks later because she-her name was Vera-she wouldn’t have bought steak all that frequently. And it wasn’t the case that Vera did all the shopping, or even most of it; she just went past the butcher’s more often than he did. She bought the food; he bought the wine. She bought the soap and toilet paper-and he bought the wine. You’re such a messer.

He grabbed one of the steaks and took it over to the sink. He looked behind him, to make sure he was alone, and then devoured it as he leaned over the sink. But he didn’t devour it. He licked it first, like an ice-pop; it was cold. He heard the drops of blood hit the aluminum beneath him, and he felt the blood running down his chin, as if it-the blood-was coming from him.