In the quiet, fog-drenched sprawl of the Heights, the locals knew better than to question why Arthur never threw a dinner party. They only knew that when the scent of garlic-heavy marinara wafted from his brownstone, the neighborhood cats would screech and bolt, and the air would grow unnervingly thin.
Milow, a man whose culinary ambitions far outweighed his common sense, had lived next door to Arthur for three years.
He had endured the rhythmic thumping of heavy crates at 3:00 AM and the peculiar lack of sunlight in the man’s parlor. But it was the pasta that finally broke the boundary of neighborly indifference.
One Tuesday, Milow knocked, holding a bottle of cheap Chianti. When Arthur opened the door, his skin possessed the pallor of parchment left too long in a drawer. His eyes, however, were warm, ancient, and undeniably hungry.
“I made enough for two,” Milow lied, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. “I heard you’re a connoisseur.”
Arthur hesitated, his gaze drifting to Milow’s pulsating carotid artery.
Then, he sniffed the air. The rich, acidic tang of slow-simmered tomatoes and fresh basil hit him like a physical blow. He leaned in, his lips curling to reveal canines that looked far too sharp for a man who claimed to have a sensitive stomach.
“I haven’t had a proper meal since the turn of the century,” Arthur whispered, his voice like dry leaves skittering on pavement.
He ushered Milow inside. The kitchen was devoid of modern appliances, save for a heavy cast-iron pot bubbling over a gas flame.
Arthur didn’t use a colander; he fished the strands of spaghetti out with his bare, porcelain-white fingers, oblivious to the heat. He twirled the pasta onto a plate, drowning it in a sauce so dark it looked like vintage ink.
“Al dente,” Arthur declared, presenting the dish.
He didn’t eat a bite. Instead, he sat across from Milow, watching him consume the meal with a predator’s predatory patience.
As Milow chewed, the garlic—the glorious, pungent, lethal garlic—seemed to fill the room, coating the walls. Arthur grew paler still, his shadow stretching and contorting against the wallpaper.
But he didn’t flinch. He was starving for the humanity he had long ago cast aside, and tonight, he would settle for the smell of a home-cooked meal, even if it meant risking the burn.
INSTANT NOODLES 