'Pasta Three Ways' by Sumitra Singam

One

As I watch you devour your pasta, I wonder how the oily strands of linguine might feel curled around my tongue. Whether they would hiss as I sucked them into my maw, whether the flecks of chilli would sting me, whether acrid vinegar would catch at my throat, choking me. This happens at a time when you measure your sinuous body against mine, to see if you could swallow me whole; and I consider folding myself in half then half again to fit neatly into the hollow I imagine exists inside you. But you hypnotise me with a swirl of pasta. You hold the fork out, sauce dripping into the bowl. I open my mouth. It is inevitable.

Two

The hollow inside you has a gravity of its own. In this version of the story, I have passed the event horizon. I have become the blackness, my atoms scattered across your unfilled shell, requiring me to populate you, spread myself to your very edges, surrender colour so you may move through this world, beaming with my refracted light, shards of me lodging in you like a shattered rainbow. You slurp the last strands, use the bread to mop the sauce, the food masticating into wet balls in your mouth. It is like I can taste it myself. It is like I don’t have to eat if you do. It is inevitable.

Three

This other me is already gathering the stray, scattered bits; sucking them back into herself with a greedy inhalation. Or maybe she never surrendered them in the first place. This other me has no patience for your vacillation between panna cotta and tiramisu. This other me stands, unfurling her body fully, gathers her bag and leaves with a purposeful stride. She won’t need to say anything. You’ll know that this is something that has already happened. It is inevitable.