It was a slip the moment their lips met. A lingering taste of wild plums and dark cherry. A slip that became a bender when he removed her French label and beheld her full body beneath it. Now he bends and slips, and barters. Surrenders an eye to admire her velvety finish. A nose to bask in her earthy bouquet. These days, he can’t wait for the moon to shine. He gives up his ring finger. A kidney. His left ventricle. A lung. “Give me your mouth,” she breathes. And he tries to ignore her while he eats his burger, tries while he yells at the umpire on TV. He tries until her breath grows cold and he night-sweat shivers. “Give me your throat!” she demands. And he steadies himself, as what’s left of him trembles. Opens wide and lets her slip in.
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Recent work has been included in Best Microfiction Anthology 2025, The Citron Review, Tiny Molecules, Ghost Parachute, Flash Boulevard and elsewhere. She is a multi-Pushcart, Best of the Net nominee and longlisted in Wigleaf's Top 50. Find her on Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social and X @KarenCrawford_