By Bayveen O'Connell
It’s so very civilised: us staring into each other’s eyes across the starched dinner table. Bibbed
and wielding metal utensils ready to crack through crustacean shell, we are blind to the sad,
dead peepers out on stalks. The sweet flesh of lobster is just an appetiser as we tease towards
our desert: our mutual feast. Champagne bubbles dance on our tongues, whetting them.
Under the tablecloth, our own pinchers grab at trouser and skirt.
Though giddy and tipsy, we hear the bottle hiss to the lobster’s butchered tail, abdomen, and
claws: ‘In another life, my darling, they’ll be our aphrodisiac.’
About the Writer
Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer. Her words have appeared Splonk, Janus Literary, MacQueen's Quinterly, The Forge, Fractured Lit, and others. She's inspired by history, folklore, art, and travel. Her writing has been nominated for Best Microfiction and the Pushcart Prize.
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