She stared at him, eating the sweetbreads. Feeling the spongy matter on her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She imagined herself wielding the butcher knife, splitting him open from nose to navel, and collecting the spilled organs. Sorting and unravelling them into woven baskets. Heart. Pancreas. Intestines. Liver. Kidneys. He would be a feast, his blood the color of eggplants. The blood draining from the offal black with bile and more gelatinous. The neighbors would come over and perform their Druidic ritual with songs and chants.
She blinked and said, “I think the wine needs to breathe a bit more.”
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