The monster drops the oldest at swim practice, then the youngest at a friend’s house. It goes to the store to get bananas and avocados and Cookie Crisp cereal. And Lactaid milk, because its husband is wondering if he’s developing a lactose intolerance. The monster has wondered the same. The pain after eating dairy products, or after eating any food really, is worsening every day. The monster has basically stopped eating altogether, which has prompted its husband to notice how cute it looks, how svelte, how nicely its jeans now hug its ass.
The monster drives home, puts away the groceries, and takes frozen chicken breasts out of the freezer. Puts on a pot of coffee. Checks its phone, and sees a text that its husband won’t be home until eight or nine because of a “work thing.” Puts the chicken back in the freezer.
The monster sits down and opens its laptop, then closes it again. The smell of the coffee turns its stomach. A chemical smell, almost poisonous somehow, meshing with old memories of cup after cup. Of laughing, side glances at cute boys in diners at 2:00 a.m. Of college, of young adulthood, of getting ready for work after staying out too late. Of early meetings. Of business trips. Of firm handshakes.
Of sleepy mornings after long nights with a baby.
Of sitting alone, its husband long gone to work, but a sweet newborn in its lap, lightly rubbing his back as music plays softly through the kitchen.
The monster has two hours left until swim practice is over, and then it’ll need to take the oldest to the tutoring center. Math has been hard this year and the tutoring is helping, even though the oldest thinks it’s boring and stupid. Math is boring and stupid, it’s true, and the tutor is arrogant and doesn’t listen, the monster agrees, but its husband is thrilled with their child’s C from last quarter turning into a B. And just imagine what next quarter will bring!
The monster’s nails scratch the table, digging into the waxy surface. The coffee maker beeps.
Should we find the youngest a tutor, too? It’s never too early to get an edge, the monster’s husband reminded them both just this morning as he shaved. We have to encourage our children to aim high, to believe in hard work, or else what’s it all for? The monster’s husband works very hard, seven days a week, and the monster respects this. The monster misses working hard.
But also, the youngest is six, the monster thought about saying at the time. What goals should a six-year-old have? Instead, it brushed a kiss on the back of its husband’s neck, looked at its own face in the steamy mirror next to his. Once they’d been the same species, even worked in the same office. Once it had goals, too, big goals.
Now it sees red, fur-lined cheeks. Bright black eyes. Giant teeth, sharpened to points.
The monster could have sunk its teeth into the side of its husband’s skull, could have ripped his flesh from the bone, but it’s not a biter. It never has been, not even back in its sales days. It would never; it couldn’t. Everyone always said so. That was why it was the right decision, staying home. The right call for everyone.
The monster pours a cup of coffee, shudders at the smell, then sits and scratches and chews on the rim of the coffee mug as it tries to think of a single time it bit. Tiny nibbles, starting as a tap, tap of teeth on porcelain, then pressing down harder, then cracking the surface, crushing, tearing until hard chunks of mug fill its mouth. The monster chews these to powder, the thick paste a satisfying glue between its teeth and tongue, then swallows hard. It looks down and coffee has spilled across the laptop and table.
Maybe the monster could bite, but not hard. Maybe it could gnaw on the laptop like an old bone. The urge to chew is not the same as the urge to devour.
It sniffs the coffee-drenched keys, recoils, then walks over to the trashcan and throws away what’s left of the mug.
Impulsively, it licks the counter, surprising itself, and then it runs its long nails along the cabinets, moving out into the hallway, digging long grooves into the wallpaper its mother-in-law bought them thirteen years ago as a wedding present. It shreds the wallpaper into ribbons, the way it longed, for a second, to shred her flesh. To bite, to devour, her pursed lips. That was a thousand years and species ago, but the monster wanted it.
The monster keeps moving, first a walk and then a trot, then picking up speed, racing toward the front door and slamming into it, crashing through. A grunt bordering on a howl building in its throat. The door flies out into the yard, flipping twice before landing with a thump.
“Oh hello!” says Jamie, the mother next door, holding up a wait a sec finger as she unstraps a child from the back of her minivan.
The monster looks her up and down, from the toddler now on her hip to her brightly patterned Lululemon leggings. The monster growls low. A warning growl. Jamie, run.
“Did you get my email?” Jamie asks.
The monster shakes its head so violently that a thin line of drool flies out, landing silently in the grass near its feet.
“Well, we could really use your help with fundraising this year, if you’re not too busy.”
The monster stares at the grass. A bead of saliva rests on the tip of one blade, then slowly drips down, out of sight.
“Sure,” the monster says. “Love to.” ▪️
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