I was always hungry, she would tell me later. From the very beginning.
                     When we were friends, she sent me a video, told me I’d find it instructive. In it, what appeared to be an undercooked phallus shot a web of white, branching out like fractured glass. It’s a ribbon worm, she told me over coffee. The tube is a proboscis, I learn later, alone in my bed. It lies inactive in the stomach until it’s time to feed, when it everts and becomes venomous.
                     A year later, she answers her door, open brow, hair falling freely over her shoulders. She herds me to the kitchen island, shores her hands on my shoulders. I split her thighs with my face and wait for her to unspool.