“Not her,” you say. Liz glances at you, some sense of surprise written across her face. She'd clearly not expected you to intervene, despite your presence. Or maybe it should be she'd hoped you wouldn't. “I know her name,” you explain plaintively.
Liz's glare is quite indicative of her opinion of this, but its only briefly directed at you before it shoots over to rest on Becky.
“Sorry,” the waitress shrugs, with only the mildest of repentance. She doesn't quite say: 'He's your husband,' but it comes across clearly anyway.
“Do me a favour,” Elizabeth tells her, “keep the next one's name to yourself.”
From her point of view, one person must be pretty much interchangeable with another. Each available, equally tasty and - to my wife - their names no more than something to order them by off of a menu.
“Not her?” My wife smiles as she takes my arm, “not a problem! Let's move on.”
“Mummy?” A soft voice drifts by as we walk on. “Is it true what that nice lady said? About that stock-person tasting like apricots? 'Cause I'm still hungry, and we haven't had dessert yet...”
“Oh, Stacy darling,” someone – her mother? - replies. From the scolding tone, it seems likely. “I told you to have someone from the stock, rather than that mundane meal, but oh no, you insisted-”
“I just wanted to be like big-brother, Mommy,” Stacy replies. She doesn't sound like she can be older than ten or eleven.
“Well your brother's having a regular dessert, same as your big-sister and I,” her mother replies, “so if you really want to be like him...”
“But I'm still really, really, really hungry!” Stacy wails, “I don't understand how he manages. It feels like I haven't eaten anything at all! I won't be able to sleep with my tummy all grumbly!”
“Maybe it'd be better to get her fed, Mom,” a youthful but morose male voice opines. “I'd rather not have her wandering into my bedroom searching for a midnight snack.”
From the corner of your eye, you can see Becky standing impatiently. And Elizabeth's hand on her wrist, gently restraining her from interrupting your eves-dropping.
“Indeed not,” a third feminine voice replies. It has the unmistakable cadences of a teenager, so familiar from your own vorish offspring. “No one's eating my little brother except me,” she giggles. “Mmm, I can't wait to feel you wiggle.”
“But big-sis, no fair,” both her siblings chorus together. One amused, one terrified.
“Totally fair, Stacy,” she replies, “Mom can always make another brother for you to eat,” she continues. “But William's my precious, irreplaceable meal. He's gonna taste so-oo good,” she purrs.
“Will you, Mummy?” Stacy pleads. “Will you really make a little brother for my tummy?”
“Sure, darling,” she replies, “I'll just have to find a nice tasty man to put him in my belly.” There's a pause. “Then I'll put him in my belly, too,” she continues, and you can almost hear the smile.
You turn, horrified, to your wife. “Surely she won't,” you whisper.
“Well, I wouldn't,” Liz agrees modestly, studying her fingertips.
But the implication is clear. That there are plenty of vores who would, and it's subtext: 'So be glad that you've got me.'
“Yay,” the youngest cries, even as her male sibling whimpers.
“Hear that, William,” the eldest continues for her. “You get to go in my stomach, and not hers after-all. Isn't that great!?”
“No,” he whispers. “You won't really let her eat me, will you Mom?”
“Sure I will, sweetie,” his mother replies. “I mean, someone's sure to gobble a delicious little thing like you, so isn't it better for it to be your sister? And if you all don't stop complaining about it,” she continues sternly, “full or not I'll devour William myself right now.”
That, at least, shuts her children up.
“But I think we'll get you that Kyouko for dessert anyway,” she continues to her youngest.
You feel Elizabeth's gentle tug against your arm. “You see?” She says. “Don't be trying to... save... anybody,” she continues. “They're just food.” Her arms slip around you, and her breasts press into your back. “See anyone you'd like to see me eat in this section?” She asks.
Indeed two women, a blonde and a redhead, do jump out at you. In tone, they're very different, the blonde's eyes – which you can't bring yourself to meet – are feisty and challenging. You don't know how she imagines she can survive, but she does. The red-head... it's easy to meet hers. They're weak, and it's almost like you can look right through into her emptiness. This woman, surely, is resigned to her fate.
They're both especially attractive to your eyes. It's not surprising. They share Elizabeth's physical type, her length and her leanness both. That alone makes you almost want to spare them your wife's gullet.
But the futility of that has just been amply demonstrated, you realise, as a waitress opens Kyouko's section and pulls the screaming, weakly and uselessly struggling Japanese woman from it.
No one but you, and perhaps the hungry tweenager whose tum she's destined for, even looks round.
So which do you choose...
