by Bob Jacobs
Gloria and I were sitting in the Café des Amis on our third date tucking into chicken nachos when she put down her cutlery, leaned forward, and whispered for the very first time that she loved me. I told her that I was flattered, but it was too soon to speak of love, but she giggled and said, "I'll prove it." She slipped off her shoes, raised a stocking-clad leg, and ate her foot, her calf, her knee and then her thigh, until she'd devoured the whole frigging leg. I said, "Gloria, really, there's no need," but she laughed, ate the other leg, her left arm, her right arm, then paused briefly to look me in the eyes before craning her neck and eating her entire tender body, beating heart and all, so that only her head remained, surrounded by flowing red hair. "I love you," she croaked, through blood-soaked lips. I drove her back to my place where she fellated me right through till morning, when I sent her home in a taxi and told her I'd call, and I have done, many times, but has she ever once answered the frigging phone?
Bob Jacobs lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.