My mama’s Sunday-best pinch in all the wrong places, borrowed clothes always have the feel of a getup.
I open the window to air out our smell from the trailer, “Did I tell you Ray took the new pups on a hog hunt? They’re getting a taste of their first kill.”
“You’re not listening, Molly.” Skyler repeats himself again and again. “I said this isn’t working for me anymore.”
The polka-dots on mama’s dress are in a feeding frenzy, eating at the fabric like black beetles. “You used to like me in my mama’s clothes. You said the pearls were the trigger. You told me they always made you hard.”
“Don’t make this painful for yourself. The kink is gone.” He hops off the fold-out bed and turns his back to me.
I keep on smiling, all teeth and sweetness just for him. But he never looks back. My little effort’s wasted. “Ray’s been starving the new pups for days. He wants them lean and slobbering for the hunt. Those hogs can get shifty. They skulk in the grass and bide their time before they gore.”
“Even you’re stories are getting old.” He mutters.
“Don’t mind my talk about the pigs. I’m just running my mouth again.” The polka-dots widen, their angry eyes are on him. “You’re a hard man to keep interested. But I always try, don’t I? You know me. I can’t help but aim to please.”
Skyler crosses over to the dinette set and pockets his keys. The spikes in his hair cast shadows, black steps across the linoleum.
“Goodbye, Molly.” He opens the screen door.
I’m losing him with one step of his boot to the next. My mouth’s open but nothing is coming out. The moment’s almost gone and my odds are growing slim, so I yell out the first thing that comes to mind, “Have you ever tried one?”
Skyler turns back, “Nope, can’t say that I have.”
“You’re in for a treat.” The polka-dots are all winking at him; their lashes are hot-curled and heavy with mascara. “The piglets melt as you chew.”
Skyler grips my legs; his thumbs drive the dress’s eyes back into their sockets. “You know I’ll try anything new.”
I tug his belt and lead him playfully outside the trailer. The freezer is out by the gravel road. It’s wheeled and latched to the back of a pick-up truck. I unfasten the bolt and Skyler boosts me up the steps.
The meat swings from hooks and drips on a spread of newspaper. Legs are stacked into piles according to size. A large shank at the bottom of the heap sticks out. Its hoof is cracked and half attached to the bone.
I’m hunched and walking backwards, dragging the leg through the floor. The leg is half my size. It’s been skinned but ingrown hairs still stick out from the meat.
Skyler’s keeping close to the doors. He’s trying to stay away. But he can’t help himself. He’s snared and inching closer to me.
He reaches out and then pulls back, afraid to touch the leg. “It doesn’t look real…”
“The last pig Ray brought home was a two hundred pounder, tusks made for ripping. It gutted one of our bitches from ribs to muzzle. But that’s nothing.” I pull back my mama’s pearls as a garrote. “Wait until you get a load of the head.”
I take his hand and we duck past a set of rib-cages. He’s snorting on the back of my neck, whispering questions and smacking wet kisses down my spine. I let him slip his hands inside my mama’s dress. The polka-dots ricochet off the fabric, scoring points like on a pinball machine.
The head is on a counter in the back. It’s upside down and bagged in plastic. I untie the knot, pulling it out by the mane. The pig’s jaws are wide open. Stumps slip out from underneath the gums. The tusks have been sawed off.
“Where are the tusks?” He asks.
I pick up a jar from the counter and unscrew the top. The tusks are bobbing in a vat of vinegar. I pick them out and hold them up on my forehead like horns. “The devil’s never what you expect. What do you say? Are you gonna let me tempt you back?
Don’t fight it. We’re made for each other.”
Skyler sounds sweet even when he’s turning mean. “That’s the worst kind of lie, Molly. You’re a smart girl. You know that.”
I let him keep on touching me even if I’m not feeling it. The polka-dots are in a buzz, zapping electric currents to shake him off. They’re boiling red and smoking. The fabric’s starting to overheat. It runs and slips like wax on my body. The dress melts off in patches that burn straight on my skin.
A spread of radiation traces through the threading. The seams burst open with a blast. I tug at the zipper on the back, but the thing won’t budge. The fabric is sticking to me. It’s seared to my armpits. The polka-dots start popping. Black dye spurts on my face.
I manage to shimmy the dress over my head and toss it on the floor. The polka-dots are flickering, dying out. Smoke exhausts from their sockets. Before long they lose power and shut off.
The lights go out and my eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. When Skyler unbuttons his shirt I can barely make out his shape. His body fades at the edges. The muscles lose their tension. His definition’s gone slack. Skyler looked better before I fucked him.
James Bodden is a writer from Tegucigalpa, Honduras, whose short fiction has appeared in Cherry Bleeds, Zerozine and Literary Muse. He has worked as a crime beat reporter and hosted a paranormal radio show.