Restaurant

I was on my third cup of coffee when I realized that, despite the racket of their conversations, all the people at the tables around me were mummified. The man alongside me, probably a therapist or a clergyman, rolling on to a woman who leaned attentively toward him. The three politicos dryly discussing the strategy of their next internet campaign, which would emerge in cold digital words the next week. The table full of guys stuttering on about last night’s sports scores, which sport exactly it was impossible to tell.

All long dead and wrapped up despite the din. Mummies.

Ends of bandages, loosening, which I’d not noticed, and trailing onto the floor.

I’d invited you here and I was waiting. It was night, of course, and pouring rain. I wasn’t sure whether you were one of those species that can’t cross barriers of water. (We all have our little idiosyncrasies.) I hadn’t seen you since last night, and I’d just briefly watched you and then talked with you, but you had that wonderful glow and I did notice that you ate meat, rich meat, and that you followed my words with wide open eyes and clear attention. 

I had chosen this place because I knew that neither of us were regulars here.

Mummies are not to my taste. Too dry.

I don’t eat, anyway. I only drink.

I could taste your blood already.