The Meat Wife

A butcher had been lonely for a long time. He had regular customers, but no one to warm his toes at night.

So the butcher decided to make a wife, using odds and ends from his shop. He used ribs for the torso, marrow bones for the arms and legs, and soup bones for the fingers and toes. For the muscles he used chicken cutlets and for the skin he used sausage casing. Finally, he molded his bride’s face from ground beef. The butcher was proud of his efforts. He wondered why he hadn’t made a wife sooner.

They were married in the ice house. The butcher thought it best to keep his bride cool.

For a while they were happy. The butcher worked fewer hours than before and even considered taking a vacation. Meanwhile, when he wasn’t working, he kept his wife company. The two of them worked on jigsaw puzzles and planned vegetarian meals. The butcher had never put any real effort into his garden, but now he researched what would grow best in winter.

However, tension soon developed. Maybe it was inevitable, the butcher thought — they’d had no real courtship period. His wife complained that he wasn’t affectionate enough. Yes, they warmed each other’s toes at night, but how often did the butcher hold her hand? And when was the last time they’d kissed? When the butcher tried to explain that they couldn’t kiss, because of salmonella, his wife changed the subject.

“We never dance.”

“I don’t understand,” the butcher said. “You want to dance?”

“I want you to want to dance. It has to be your idea.”

But how could it be his idea?

Another problem was his wife’s appearance. The butcher had been mindful to use different cuts of meat — too much steak or liver would’ve depleted his stock. But now he looked at his wife and saw a patchwork of different colors and textures. He watched as her ground-beef face slowly turned grey. It was unfair to blame his wife, the butcher knew, but he was less attracted to her than before.

The butcher started to work longer hours again. They puzzled less frequently, sometimes leaving the pieces untouched for days. They even argued less frequently, which, while he appreciated the calm, the butcher knew to be a bad thing.

One summer evening he came home to find his wife packing a bag.

“I’m leaving,” the meat wife said.

“But where will you go?”

“It’s unimportant,” she said. “You’re ashamed of me.”

The butcher knew what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to apologize and comfort his wife, who was only pretending to pack. After all, she didn’t have any real possessions — just individual puzzle pieces, which she was placing in the bag one at a time. The butcher knew all this, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead he imagined himself alone. Would it genuinely be so bad?

His wife was packing even slower, if that was possible.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” the butcher said. “I’m ashamed of myself.”

His statement didn’t make sense, but it sounded like an apology. His wife stopped packing. They talked a little more and the butcher proposed they go outside. They could hold hands and walk around the neighborhood, he said, so all his regular customers could see them together. Would an ashamed person suggest that?

It was still daytime when they left the house. The butcher would’ve been concerned about the smell, but a light breeze kept his wife from sweating. As promised, they held hands and walked at a leisurely pace. They were both calmest when the most recent fight had just concluded and the next fight was furthest away.

The carrion birds came first. They flew in lazy circles around the couple and perched in the trees. Then the neighborhood dogs caught the scent. One dog was joined by another, and another, until a motley pack had developed. The dogs matched the couple’s pace. The butcher and her wife began to walk faster. They didn’t address what was happening — there was no need. They were far from home when the first dog took a nip.

“Run!” the butcher shouted.

His wife sprinted ahead. The dogs ran after her, paying no mind to the butcher, and the birds took flight. It was a terrible sight to behold — a spectacle of wings and teeth — but the butcher could only observe. In time he would make a new bride for himself, using ground turkey to avoid the greying problem.