Teeth

She had one thumb over the road and the other between her teeth, picking at an apple seed, when he pulled over. She had nothing but her dad’s old army jacket to keep her from the cold, so she got in quick, leaving nothing but her breath out behind her. He offered a hot meal. She said she hadn’t eaten, took that quick too. There were no diners for miles and the next rest stop was three exits down. Don’t worry, he said. I live just ‘round here.

High on the ride and the promise of dinner, she didn’t think much of it when he stopped the car by a field, scarred over from old tilling and the season’s first frost. A picnic, she said. How nice. And he flashed her some too white grin. Little cold for it though, she started, but his tongue was already down her throat. And his hands were around her neck. And he tasted sweet and ready to spoil. So she bit. And moved her little nibbling mouth down and bit again and said thank you for being so tender.

But winter had settled and the ground was not so forgiving. Cold and stiff around his limp body. So she left him under just a few feet. For the worms to pick at, to finish his soft, rotted core. For snow to build, lush and heavy, overtop. And in the great thaw and summer’s bounty, for him to come up clean, white and grinning.