JP Relph

The first time I was bitten, it was my fault. Bad workday, bad life day. I watched true crime in bed, devoured a packet of cherry chocolate cookies. Fell asleep side-slumped, arm dangling, fingers sticky. I didn’t feel the bites—he was strangely gentle—just a sensation of heat in numb fingers. I did feel when he found my mouth still slick with cherry, grazed my lip with his teeth. Felt it all down my spine. Pain red and shiny as the fruit. I woke to him hunkered on my chest, cleaning his whiskers. His eyes black pearls winking. I tasted blood and cherry on my lip. His whiskers brushed my cheek.