She bends over and cups her thick, stubby hand around the bulge between his thighs as he calmly spreads his legs wide and leans back in the chair long enough for her to get started on his zipper. She wears no bra, her cheap flower-printed blouse halfway unbuttoned, offering him a view of heavy, flaccid breasts that arouse nothing beyond his need to manipulate and control. He rips open her blouse, buttons lightly clattering against wood, and begins fondling her the way she craves.
"Oh," she moans. "Don't stop," she begs, moving his head closer.
"Want more, baby?"
"Oh."
He sucks her, disgusted by her salty, sour taste, and shoves her hard with his bare feet.
The thud of her body hitting the floor, her shocked gasp, are familiar sounds in the fishing shack.
11
BLOOD SEEPS FROM A SCRAPE on Bev's dimpled left knee, and she stares at the wound.
"How come you don't want me no more, baby?" she says. "You used to want me so bad I couldn't keep you off me."
Her nose runs. She shoves back her short, frizzy, graying brown hair and pulls her torn blouse together, suddenly humiliated by her ugly nakedness.
"Want is when /want."
He resumes the blows with the meat cleaver. Tiny bits of flesh and bone fly out from the thick, shiny blade and stick to the stained wooden table and to Jay's sweaty bare chest. The sweet, sour stench of rotting flesh is heavy in the stifling air, and flies drone in lazy zigzags, lumbering airborne like fat cargo planes. They hover over the gory mother lode inside the bucket, their black and green swarming bodies shimmering like spilled gasoline.
Bev collects herself off the floor. She watches Jay hacking and tossing flesh into the bucket, flies darting up and greedily dive-bombing back to their feast. They buzz loudly, bumping against the side of the bucket.
"And now we're supposed to eat off that table." Hers is an old line.