The doorbell rings and you know your weekly delivery is here. Hopefully you can convince Parker, the young, delicious delivery man, to stay and chat for more than just a few seconds.
You swing open the wooden port and greet Parker with a warm smile. “Why hello, handsome!” you say, not shouting but loudly.
“Hi, Mrs. Pourciau,” Parker responds professionally and politely. Fuck, a man who takes his job seriously makes your dry lips wet.
“What have you got for me today, Parker?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“Same thing as always, Mrs. Pourciau,” he says while letting out a deep breath. The effect is such that you almost think he’s bored talking to you.
“Thank you, Parker!” you exclaim enthusiastically. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”
“Uh, no, Mrs. Pourciau,” he says, “I have deliveries to make.”
“Nonsense,” you scold, “there’s nothing says you can’t stop and have a cup of tea with an old woman.”
“No, ma’am, but I have a job to do,” says Parker urgently before walking briskly back to his delivery van and speeding off down the street.
Fuck, you think, cursing yourself. Came on too strong again.
You take the package Parker brought you back into the kitchen and cut it open with your hard, sharpened fingernails. You retrieve the firm plastic package from its berth within the cardboard box and can barely restrain yourself. You slice open the plastic with a nail and pour the warm red blood down your throat, allowing only the most inevitable spills onto your white nightgown.
The blood packs do their job – sate your hunger – but the thrill is absent, and sometimes the yearning for the excitement of the kill must be satiated the same as the pull of the blood to the throat.
One of these days, Parker, you say only to yourself, you’ll have that drink, and I’ll have mine.