Dark
She wanted to eat everything—the meat, the sauce, the bread, the greens, even the cake. She wanted it all. And still, she wanted more. After the wine, after the long sleep, she woke hungry and waiting. Her belly was a cave—damp and yawning, longing for one single shaft of light.
And then one day, the hunger stopped. The waiter brought her apples and cheeses and breads. They sat uneaten on the table. A slice of cake, its icing rich and full, remained on her plate. The cave of her belly seemed satisfied in its emptiness.
In Texas, there is a bridge full of bats. The bats come out at dusk—in hordes. People wait to see them, cameras ready, eyes adjusting to the changing light.
And so she found herself there among the bystanders—some had lawn chairs, some stood, arms crossed, staring at the sky. Up above, others leaned over the railing. The air shifted from gray to darker gray to black. She wondered what it would be like to live with the bats, there in the crevices of that bridge, waiting for the darkness.
It is something, after all: hungering so many years for light only to develop a taste for the dark.
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