“How would you want to be eaten? If you were definitely going to be eaten.”
“I’d like to be eaten at a big meal, by lots of people. I’d have been roasted, maybe, or stewed. Lots of people would be there, friends, and they’d enjoy me over wine and good conversation and it’d be fun. At the end of the night the host would hug everyone as they left, and they’d promise to meet up again soon. He’d close the door after the last person had left, roll up his sleeves, tidy up his lounge, and slowly do the dishes. He’d carefully put the leftover me-meat in a tupperware in the fridge, turn off the lights in the dining-room, and go to bed.
He’d wake up the next day, the host, really early, and pad down into the kitchen. He’d brew himself a cup of coffee, take the meat of me out of the fridge, and make himself a sandwich. He’d spread thick, good butter on the clean, white bread, and maybe add a little salt or some mustard. He’d take his coffee and his sandwich and walk out onto his deck.
And he’d stand there, in the dawning day, early, and enjoy his coffee and sandwich, content in some simple, unspoken way.”
