SULKY

Tonight is special. Tonight is pasta night.

Web-MD says that too much meat can be bad for you, so I’m cutting out the meat completely. I found a fab recipe for a no-cream pasta primavera on one of my favourite food blogs. Yummy.

My Boss is in the other room watching television. I didn’t hear him get home, but I smelled him. I smell him now. I close my eyes and inhale. My whole body tingles as the scent of his skin and hair fills my lungs.

God, he smells good.

I julienne some bell peppers and add them to the roasting pan. I use a six inch utility knife for this. My favourite internet cooking show says that julienning is mostly done with a chef’s knife. These are anywhere between six to twelve inches. The chef’s knife in my set is ten inches, and that’s just a little big for hands like mine. Bods’ hands, that is.

We Bods (trademark Natec, 2027) are about two thirds the size of a full grown human, though our eyes are larger. There was this study done around the end of last century that showed that big eyes are attractive to humans–so they grow us like that.

My eyes are big, but my hands are small, just like any other Bod.

Once the vegetables are roasted long enough to bring out their natural sweetness, I remove the pan from the oven and move it over to the prep table, my favourite part of the kitchen. There’s a window just above it that opens out onto our backyard, and to the beach and the ocean beyond that. When the house is quiet I can just about hear the roar of the waves. Maybe it’s because we spend the first year of our lives in gestation tanks or maybe it has something to do with how the Engineers mixed our DNA, but we Bods love water.

Sometimes, when my Boss is out, I’ll climb into a cold bath and lie back so that I’m completely submerged. Then I pretend that I’m in a huge lake or way out in the ocean, somewhere deep underwater where it’s dark and green and quiet. There are other Bods with me, BoyBods too (they exist, but there isn’t as much demand for them), and we’re all down there floating together in the deep, being carried along by the currents to somewhere just out of sight, somewhere safe.

Then I’ll open my eyes and I’m back in my old bathroom with the cracked mirror and the door that can’t be locked from the inside.

#

I add the roasted vegetables to a sizzling mix of olive oil, butter, garlic, basil, and vinegar. I then add the whole lot to a bowl of strained penne. I make sure to mix the sauce through the pasta thoroughly. This ensures that the penne doesn’t get tacky and stick together in a gross pasta ball. I learned this trick from another Bod, someone I met online on a Bod bulletin board. The boards are great, we mostly speak about water–swimming, rivers, drowning, dams, the ocean, stuff like that–but also about the way our Bosses smell. Things like “Do you think he smells better when he sweats?” (consensus is yes) and “How do you keep from getting the shakes-and-sweats when he’s out of the house for a whole weekend” (hint: wear his unwashed clothes and sleep in the laundry). Now, just to clarify, we’re not body-odour fetishists–not that there’s anything wrong with that–we were made like this. Since every human being has a unique scent the Engineers lock our olfactory and reward centres on to the smell of our bosses skin. It’s like catnip, heroine, and meth all rolled into one. It’s what keeps us happy with them, no matter what they might do to us. It’s what keeps us from running away from them, say, to the ocean, no matter how badly we might want to.

#

“Dinner’s ready!” I call through the door that opens into the living room. His easy-chair cracks and pings as he hefts his, not insubstantial, bulk from it.

I check myself in the mirrored front of our fridge before I present myself. I want to look good. I’m wearing his favourite outfit. Blue jeans and a black t-shirt. It’s all very tight, but nothing sleazy. There are stores online that specialize in Bod clothes. They sell the most god-awful things; leather and rubber and crotchless this and that. Poor Bods. My Boss isn’t nearly as bad as some of the others; there are some ghastly videos online and some of the stories I’ve read on the boards are enough to make you sick. I suppose I could count myself lucky because mine hasn’t hurt me like that.

But he could, so I don’t.

#

He’s halfway through his second bowl of pasta primavera when I ask “do you think you could take me to see the ocean this weekend?”

The quick, single shake of his head, a clear no, barely slows his single-minded inhalation of pasta.

I’ve asked him this question before, dozens of times. He always says no.

“Please, just once? I’ll never ask again.”

He stops eating, puts his fork in the bowl with a clatter, and looks at me irritatedly.

“Firstly, I’m busy. Secondly, I don’t like the beach. Too much sand. And Lastly, you don’t even have a costume. Stupid.”

“I don’t mind.”

But his attention is already back on the pasta. Who can blame him, it’s delicious.

I stand and make as though I’m taking my dishes to the kitchen.

“Oh jesus, don’t get all sulky on me again.” He says.

Maybe I’m just a little sulky, but can you blame me?

Instead of heading for the kitchen I fetch a heavy stone ashtray from the living room table. A gift from his grandmother, a very nice piece, really solid. I go back to the dining room, walk up behind him and lift the ashtray high above my head with both hands. Look, it’s not that I want to do this, but he’s really given me no choice.

At the last second he turns to look at me, his mouth hangs open in surprise revealing a disgusting mass of half chewed penne.

I bring the ashtray down on his head as hard as I possibly can and it connects just above his left eyebrow with a meaty thud.

Another thing I learned online is that, despite what you see in movies, knocking someone unconscious is often fatal.

Oh well.

He slides off his chair and onto the floor.

The next part is going to be the hardest. I’m not squeamish, but the best info I’ve found online is about dressing and skinning deer and other animals.

This is way different.

You’re supposed to hang and bleed the animal before you skin it. I don’t have the tools for that, and, let’s be honest, he’s a big guy and I’m not strong enough to string him up by myself.
I also don’t have a skinning knife, so I get started with my paring knife.

#

I haven’t done a half bad job considering this was my first time, though it was messy business. I’m glad I’m not going to be the one cleaning up.

I wash and soap the skin and hold it up to the light. It doesn’t really look like him. Weird, I don’t know why I expected it too. I take a shower myself and change, then I pack two bags. The first has some clothes and my toiletries. The other is a cooler bag. When it comes to tanning hides, there are few methods recommended online. I’ve decided to use mayo and eggs, since I had them in the kitchen already. I pack the eggs and mayo into the cooler bag.

Then I take the skin, my new skin, and fold it like I would a blanket. It’s still warm and clean from the washing. I press my face into it as a seal pup might nuzzle her mother’s pelt. I breathe in deeply and my whole body relaxes and warms and I think I’ve done alright. Now I can go wherever I want.

I wonder if I’ll miss him?

I put my new skin into the cooler bag and cover it with ice. I turn off all the lights in the house and step out the front door.

The night is cool and smells of just watered soil. I can’t see the ocean, it’s too dark, but I can hear the waves crashing. I turn and walk towards the sound.