Eat Me by Linda Jaivin

you now, does he?’ Philippa persisted, incredulous. ‘He was only a punk poet with an interesting haircut.’
    Funny, that, Chantal thought to herself. She actually mistook him for a god at the time. Twelve years older than Chantal, Bram had the kind of tough, wry character etched into his face that the apple-cheeked boys her age tried to affect but could never achieve. He encased his small, thin body in tight black jeans and tattered t-shirts, and cut his thick black hair himself, chopping it back till it stuck out in short uneven spikes from his handsome, angular face. She’d been dead impressed by the fact that not only had he been to London, but he’d hung out at the Batcave, home of the original goths.
    â€˜Of course,’ Chantal said aloud, ‘I was a bit of a punk too.’
    Philippa shook her head, observing her fondly. ‘Chantal, correct me if I’m wrong, but your razor blade earrings were boutique-purchased trompe l’oeil.’
    Chantal shrugged.
    â€˜Do you remember,’ Philippa giggled, ‘how we used to read Les Fleurs du Mal to each other in the Newtown cemetery? Along with our own adolescent jottings? Isn’t that a hoot? We were such romantics.’
    â€˜That we were,’ agreed Chantal, tapping a cigarette out of her pack. A memory welled up of the first time she went to hear Bram read. It was at the university. She’d gone early to get a seat up front. When it was over, she felt like she wanted to say something to him, though she wasn’t sure what. Silly young thing that she was, however, she found herself intimidated by the cluster of beautiful young women and pale, thin boys who thronged around him. She stood a few paces away as he talked to a blonde girl who seemed to Chantal to have reached some plane of desirability that didn’t even exist in her personal geometry. At one point he looked over at her and the intensity of his gaze caused her to turn and walk away as fast as she could without actually running.
    â€˜You know,’ said Philippa, ‘you were always very mysterious about what actually happened between you and Bram.’
    â€˜Oh, darling,’ said Chantal, lighting a cigarette, ‘it was all a bit sordid, really.’
    Philippa interrogated Chantal with her eyes. It was hard to read her expression behind the RayBans. Chantal wasn’t giving anything away. Philippa motioned to a passing waiter to refill their glasses.
    Chantal had gone to all of Bram’s readings after that. One evening, as she was heading out the door, she felt a hand on her arm. For some reason, she knew it was him. Turning, she blurted out, ‘You’re my idol,’ and then blushed to the ears. He smiled.
    To cover her embarrassment, she asked about the tattoo on his arm. He explained that it was an alchemic symbol. He asked her if she believed that common metals could be transformed into gold. He didn’t pay much attention to her answer. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. It didn’t occur to her to ask where they were going.
    â€˜So,’ Philippa broke into Chantal’s reverie, ‘what happened last night? Any re-igniting of old flames?’
    Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘More like the final scattering of the ashes.’ Though she was making light of the whole affair, the memory made her feel momentarily queasy. She put down her refilled glass on the bench beside her, but picked it up again quickly as Bernard pounced, landing precisely where the glass had been.
    â€˜What a beautiful cat,’ Philippa marvelled.
    Chantal cocked one stylised eyebrow and treated the creature to a look of high disdain. ‘I suppose. If you like cats.’
    Before Chantal could react, Bernard jumped onto her lap and picked his way across it to Philippa’s, stopping briefly as his front paws reached Philippa’s jeans to lift and stretch each back paw in turn, waving them offensively close to