ruby eye (revised)

By Kylie Nguyen

the best time of the year is right before summer. sprinkles of rain here and there. clouds clearing up before breaking out into streaks of sunlight. as i roll a ripe strawberry between the tips of my fingers, my eyes drag alongside its curvature. admiring each and every dip of this locally grown fruit, i

admire its dimples and the way they nest dozens of seeds ones that jam themselves in between your teeth.

“boo!”

the sudden burst of sound causes me to violently flinch and lose my grip. the jeweled fruit drops haphazardly onto the half-decorated shortcake. it plops awkwardly in the center. lopsided. uneven. the bed of whip cream splatters

across the divots.

“if you’re going to be in the back, you should at least try to be quiet,” my voice feels more tired than annoyed. it doesn’t take much effort for me to know who was in the room: marcilla, a long-term friend of mine whose interests fall between freeloading and avant garde self-expressions.

i carefully remove the strawberry with almost surgical precision, lifting it from the tip and setting it onto a tray. unable to wipe away the leftover cream, i turn in the direction of the faucet, only to be stopped by the waist.

marcilla’s hands rest above my hip bone, fingers embedding itself into my curves as i exhale carefully through my nose. she down at me with a catty expression, not at all bothered by the trouble she had caused. the part-time closers have long disappeared, but i suspect she slithered her way through

the back door.

“i’m doing an art project,” she says, murmuring against the groove of my ear.

“and?”

marcilla rolls her eyes, dragging her tongue across her lips, “i need your help obviously.”

“it seems like you always need my help,” i ignore the way her body rolls against mine. she dances around me, entrapping me with her arms as she crosses them over my stomach. fingers toy with the plush and delicate rolls of my body. her nails, long and well-manicured, always so perfectly clean, rack across the surface of my uniform, “well, there isn’t anyone else better for this project. are you suggesting i find someone else?” marcilla tugs at my buttons, “you’re a cruel girlfriend.”

“friends with benefits,” i correct her without a lick of hesitation, using the back of my hands to push against her, “you make it so obviously clear every morning.” my response elicits a sharp laugh from her throat—-something i’ve long to hear in the early crack of dawn, but so deprived and empty when the sun comes. the only faint memory i have of marcilla is her gentle swipes of my lipstick, applying it against her lips and smearing them across my chin, marking me with her presence.

her chin brushes against the crook of my neck, occupying the empty space and infecting it with a bitter, citric scent i’ve always avoided in baking.

“i need a model for my project, are you interested?” marcilla was a talented painter. therefore, her tastes have always been a little too eccentric. she preferred cakes that were bitter—not just doused in chocolate, but refined with coffee and a pinch of orange zest. it had to be dense like bread yet decorated eloquently, no different than other extravagant berry-cream cakes.

i vaguely remember her last request. she had me on the table, paint dragging between my thighs as her breath hovered over my bare skin. marcilla told i was supposed to be a mermaid. but the smell of dark soy sauce and wasabi made

me think otherwise. i take in a deep breath, “do you have anyone in mind?”

“not really.”

“then, what is it?”

i can feel her fingers dive between the gaps of my buttons, nails tickling my thin camisole. when she senses a flicker of heat from my belly, her lips curve wider.

“i’m thinking about a cake.”

marcilla grips at my uniform, almost tearing through the white fabric and glossed buttons, “but not just any cake. i want something i could feel in my hands... ravage even,” she brushes her nose against the curve of my neck, “something bitter but still sweet like sugar. i want it to linger on my

tongue,” a shiver runs through the back of my spine, “and i want it to be still warm.”

before i could respond, her hands rip through my clothes, clawing into my stomach with her nails. the tense feeling in my organs comes to a screeching halt as i feel them burst through. the smell of milk engulfs my senses, and the hint of citrus makes me slightly woozy. i watch as my intestines roll

between her fingers. they shake and split open like overfilled piping bags. although i imagined the floors of the kitchen to be covered in a thick layer of blood, it was decorated with sugary cream and broken pieces of yellow cake. whipped fluff melts against the heat of my skin and flutters down my thighs in thin trails.

in between the gummy texture of my insides, there was berry jam lodged in the corners. they looked to be the same mixture of fruits i picked before my shift. despite the real product being a smooth, delicate and refined jam, the ones packed in my organs was close to chunky and vile—yet still smelling as sweet as ever.

marcilla picks the strawberry from the tray, dragging it across the dry cracks on my lips. she moves just before i could taste its tartness. the vibrant color blurs as she holds it directly in front of my eye, blindsiding me as she raises her jaw. a heated breath dances across the surface of my skin and before i could breathe a sigh of relief, she sinks her teeth into my flesh. her other hand continues to pull at my insides, until the floor is covered in a sticky mess of berries and cream.