It’s the rapist and the rapist’s girlfriend’s anniversary—six inseparable months already, how time flies when you’re in love!—and to celebrate they plan to dine at East Meets West, the pricey concept joint that’s an homage to Mexican taco trucks and Japanese street-cart fare. The woman arrives early, on opening, in fact, and stakes out a seat excellent for spying. By the time the rapist and the rapist’s girlfriend waltz in for their eight o’clock reservation, she is tipsy. They begin with a bottle of champagne, though they barely touch it, preferring to concentrate on the touching of their knees under the table, the rapist’s girlfriend reaching to stroke the inside of the rapist’s thigh, the rapist caressing the very tips of her fingertips. The rapist and the rapist’s girlfriend are drunk off their happiness, and the woman is drunk off vodka. Trays of tacos rolled like sushi and sushi rolls spread out like tacos emerge, as colorful and ostentatious as if they are floats in a miniature, culturally appropriative Carnival, winding their way through the restaurant and into the triumphant gullets of the rapist and the rapist’s girlfriend.

Distracted by the rapist’s tongue as it darts to snatch flavor from his lips, and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, the woman wonders: What if the rapist’s girlfriend, instead of nonchalantly sampling the expensive small bites and champagne, ate the rapist for their anniversary? The rapist’s girlfriend could begin with an amuse-bouche of the rapist’s Adam’s apple, devouring it in one take as if it were a cut of tuna sashimi. Next, a lightly braised trio of rapist-tongue tacos. To prepare the main course, the rapist’s girlfriend will grip the rapist by the balls and compress them until they pop! With a sound identical to the sound of a tube of tennis balls opening, the rapist’s balls shall bounce across the floor. Waitstaff will skitter around chasing the balls, to be simmered up in a hearty broth of ramen noodles and rapist testicles. For the pièce de résistance: a dessert of the rapist’s penis, split like a plantain and sautéed with condensed milk until it melts in the mouth.

A toast! To six more amazing months. The rapist and the rapist’s girlfriend share a passionate kiss. A wave of nausea crashes against the woman, though whether it was the kiss, or the vodka, or envisaging the rapist’s girlfriend cannibalizing him like a character from her stepmom’s pillows, or a combination of the three, it’s impossible to guess. She dry heaves over a toilet in the bathroom that resembles a quinceañera set in a Zen garden. When she emerges from the stall, utterly spent, unable to throw up, emptied out of emptiness itself, the rapist’s girlfriend is standing against the sinks and reapplying her makeup. The woman stands there staring for what must be a strange span of time because the rapist’s girlfriend meets her eyes in the mirror and raises her eyebrows like, Hey, Creepy McStaringlady, take a selfie, it’ll last longer. The woman’s feet shuffle her to the sink beside the rapist’s girlfriend and the woman’s hands wash her hands and the woman’s vocal cords vocalize.