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In the middle of the night, the monster quietly slips out from between her thighs. In sleep she must have closed her heart to it, for when she reaches out to feel it, it’s gone. She wants to cry, but it is her fault for not loving things closely enough, the sadness unearned. What will it do without her arthritic but willing body, the dark loch that lives between her thighs? A monster feels safe in there.

She wonders if tacking flyers on telephone poles will make sense, Have you see this monster? But that’s embarrassing, her life peculiar enough. She decides just to leave the door unlocked, and to keep some gluten free cookies in the pantry so that if her monster comes back, it will feel cared for.

She sits there wondering who to call. The night is weirdly purple, the sky a full-body bruise. She walks into the kitchen to scrounge up some supper. Investigates the fridge.  Such scandalously red lipstick she wears, her mother would have scowled. She wears lipstick all the time, as if to protect the days from her paleness. Now, without its eyes on her, she is a damaged, less interesting creature. She heats up a tin of soup and opens the door to the last of the terrible daylight. She can feel how much it matters— the way food feels like love, the way her mouth wants to know what a monster tastes like.

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Meg Pokrass is the author of eight flash collections. She currently serves as the Founding and Managing Editor of Best Microfiction. Meg lives in Inverness, Scotland.