THE SATURDAY ROGER BECAME SO HUNGRY

Lauren’s parting words are a jigsaw puzzle dumped on the floor. Did she say Roger has a big dick? Or he is a big dick? Objectively, the second comment makes more sense. Her getaway last night was efficient and unimpeded by his begging. Maybe he ugly-cried. Today, Roger wanders the three-room Bermuda triangle of his apartment. Nothing reminds him of Lauren.

The kitchen is stocked with disappointment. Roger opens the refrigerator, and it’s empty inside except for clinical white light that shines on the pantry behind him: shelves bearing soup can and pickle jar imprints in the dust. A bottle of canola oil and a cylindrical box of salt. A non-functioning oven thermometer. A sprung mousetrap. Famished but hesitant, Roger grabs the oil and salt.

The pound and a half of pure sodium chloride ravages his gullet but there’s no quitting. Roger licks his crystal-ring-encrusted pie hole, tosses aside the emptied container, and chugs the canola oil. He leans against the kitchen counter, swirls a finger in spilled oil, and licks it clean. The flavor is rather complex. Nutty, yet faintly plasticky.

The countertop glistens from Roger’s tongue-polishing. In his quest to glean every crumb or stain, he probes cupboard, crevice, and cubby. Amid this scouring, a cat slinks across the tiled floor. Roger inadvertently sends a signal the poofy calico understands perfectly, as in humans in kitchens mean opportunity. She wraps her tail around Roger’s shin and meows at him.

“Who’s Daddy’s darling?” Roger coos. “Who does Daddy love most of all? It’s Kittyface! It’s Kittyface!”

Roger picks up the cat and cradles her. If only he’d stopped at the grocery last night after work, his larder wouldn’t be so goddamned depleted. Depleted? When you’re inside your cubicle the other employees can’t see you weep but they still hear it. Every day, you put on your borrowed skin suit and smile with someone else’s teeth. Kittyface purrs in anticipation of a tidbit. Roger eats her in two bites.

The fur is not the best part by far, but to some extent Kittyface blunts Roger’s cravings. Nothing edible remains in the apartment except shoe leather, and even this is hit or miss thanks to man-made materials infiltrating the manufacture of reasonably priced footwear.

Mrs. Fitch will have stuff for him to eat. Roger and his boozy, widowed, next-door neighbor aren’t close friends but they’ve chatted in the hallway or when he does small things for her, jobs too minor for the building superintendent. After one such task, she served warmed chocolate moon pies. Gooey. Chewy. Homemade, not store-bought. Roger’s stomach grumbles like gravel in a clothes dryer. Mrs. Fitch must have something to tide him over.

Roger knocks on her door. While waiting, he wipes cat hair from his face and sweater. Albert, Mrs. Fitch’s Cairn terrier, yap-yap-yaps from within. The door opens chain-wide. One of Mrs. Fitch’s bleary eyes and both of Albert’s scan the intruder up and down.

“Why, it’s Roger!” says Mrs. Fitch. With a rattle, the chain drops. “Where’s your pretty girlfriend? Will you come in and have a drink?”

“You go ahead, ma’am, might be too early for me. I stopped by to say ‘hello.’ Lauren is gone, I kicked her out.”

“She didn’t deserve you! Someone better will come along. Now, Albert, be a good boy and let our handsome neighbor in!”

The dog retreats to his basket and glares while he gnaws a rubber squeezy-toy, dramatizing the fate of Roger’s shin bone if Albert gets hold of it. The chonky pink piggy squeals with every nibble. Mrs. Fitch rides the floor the way sailors adapt to a rolling deck at sea. Weaving, she splashes bourbon into her glass.

“No adult beverage for you, Roger? Are you sure?”

“Well, actually—this is pretty embarrassing, ma’am—I haven’t made it to the store, so I’ve run out of food. You wouldn’t have anything to eat, would you?”

“Oh, my, a man and his appetite! I baked a batch of banana pecan muffins this morning. I want you to try one!”

Mrs. Fitch reappears balancing a plate of a dozen fist-sized muffins. She sips her highball and smiles when Roger devours the first muffin in one swallow, but her expression wilts as he finishes off the remainder.

“Those were delicious, Mrs. Fitch. What else do you have?”

With a shaky hand against her cheekbone she toddles back to the kitchen.

“I’ll see what I can whip up, Roger. It won’t take long!”

Strips of raw bacon spatter and curl in a hot skillet. The sound of it is music and the smoky scent is pure sex bait. Albert bounds across the living room and drops a prize between Roger’s feet… the shrill, slimy pig. Albert’s plump swine and the prospect of brown-sugar-cured pork are triggers. Drool-ribbons decorate Roger’s chin. Just as Mrs. Fitch returns with a platter of bacon, scrambled eggs, and sloppily-buttered whole wheat toast, the tail end of a terrier disappears into Roger’s mouth. Roger seizes the laden platter.

“Roger!” Mrs. Fitch wails. “How could you eat Albert? My poor baby boy is gone!”

“I told you, I’m hungry.”

“But I was bringing you food!”

Roger shrugs. “Not quickly enough, I suppose.”

Mrs. Fitch collapses. She claws at Roger’s knees, but he focuses on bacon. Her attacks subside; still bawling, she clutches Albert’s toy to her bosom. The rubber pig squeaks its condolences intermittently. Bacon and eggs aren’t enough and Roger is as ravenous as before.

He sizes up spindly old Mrs. Fitch, belches wetly, and wolfs her down in ten seconds. Roger feels good but not great, essentially the Thanksgiving dinner effect of being full yet unsated that compels one to go back for more. An elementary school is a block away, the city zoo within walking distance, and, why not, the baseball stadium. This is Saturday and a home game is scheduled for 7:00 PM, with the prediction of a sellout crowd.