The Homophage

Really, they must’ve started before the bowl of chili, she thinks, before birth, in utero.

Could’ve been something mom ate. Something her body fed to mine.

Could’ve shot down into me from mom’s gut, straight through our umbilical cord….

The meat sizzles in the pan, crackles louder than a dinner bell.

Her mouth gushes saliva.

She adds a dash of lime juice. Another pad of butter. A sprinkle of Himalayan salt. A little thyme.

She flips the steak, sucks in the aroma… sighs.

Delicious!

She’s had plenty of practice with this recipe.

If I have to do this I might as well enjoy it.

A little more lime.

A little more thyme.

She licks her lips.

Her mind wanders:

I’m just like one of Pavlov’s dogs….

Well, Pavlov’s something.

She laughs.

No, my powers didn’t start with the chili. But…

I’d never have known about them otherwise.

She forks the little steak and smiles at the juices.

Perfectly seared!

She sets it on her plate beside the greens and potatoes, pours herself a modest Cabernet.

I discovered them by accident. Half way through that bowl of chili: a sudden inexplicable— but undeniable— rush….

She cuts away a morsel.

But I didn’t understand until I saw the news.

The meat is still hot from the pan.

Hot enough to burn.

He worked there, hid his victims in their ground beef.

I remember barfing…

crying…

And discovering I could suddenly play guitar.

And lift just about anything in my apartment, even the fridge.

I remember tracking him down….

how his chest collapsed around my fists.

She places her most recent kill on her tongue.

The flavor!

The rush!

She swallows and gasps.

Her mind and muscles pulse— the growing strengths of a well fed vigilante!

They taste better when they deserve it….