I’ve marinated the meat in the best red wine I could afford, five days now, with garlic onion and bay leaf and a little stick of cinnamon, lots of cracked black pepper, and lots of aching tears.
On the fifth day I rubbed it with olive oil and browned it well in a hot pan. I kissed it for luck. Crane was right, it tasted bitter.
I carried the meat ceremoniously to a black metal roasting pan that I’d beaten with a hammer into the rough shape of a coffin. I browned a sliced onion in the pan, added more tears, and a little butter for flavor.
Then I deglazed the fry pan with a bit of the marinade, stirring and scraping the caked-on bits from the pan, swilling it into the juice for more flavor.
I poured the contents into the coffin-roaster, covering the meat just a little over half way. I stuck the coffin-roaster into a slow oven, set to three hundred degrees. Nice and slow, everything took time, let the hurting leak on out.
I added the insecticide last.
I served the meal in a valentine shaped bowl, bought especially for the occasion. I set her body in her chair across the table from me. The freezer kept her when I could not. Her chest hung open like a secret treasure box. She had a smile on her face. I’d placed it there, a finishing touch before placing her in the freezer.
Then I spooned it up. Bitter, it tasted bitter, but no worse than finding your wife in bed with your best friend.
Heart meat is hard, unless you cook it properly.
I ate it up, every last drop.
I bit my lip until the gag reflex stopped working, and waited to die.
If I’d timed it right, they’d find us together before she thawed. A frozen tableau, two hearts, one broken in my chest and one well braised in my belly.
Well done. Well done.
This story is excerpted from BAD VALENTINES 2.
To help me celebrate Valentine’s Day I am offering BAD VALENTINES 1 and BAD VALENTINES 2 for 99 cents each the whole entire month of February.