Staring contest with Bea

You were sure this was the worst day of your life. Just when you thought you had found a woman who shared your passion, just when you had let your guard down enough to confess to that woman, she rejected you. Hurt, blinded, you struck her in a moment of effeminate rage.

Then, inexplicably, she dragged you by the earlobe to her favorite cafe. You hated it in there - it was too dark, too stuffy. The music was simultaneously tinny and uncomfortably loud. Everything was overpriced. Adding insult to injury, she ordered you to buy her an extra-large slice of her favorite orange-chocolate cake, except this time she called it owabi-keiki. You wanted to die. Your eyes pleaded with the cashier to shoot you where you stood. Alas, you took out your wallet and took up the plate and walked slumpingly back to the uncomfortably-small table where she sat, arms folded, frowning deeply, eyes obscured by the soft light that glinted off her glasses.

In that moment, you had to convince yourself that the cake was excrement in order to be able to eat it. She insisted you pick up the one fork and take the first bite - then another, and another. The cloyingly-sweet mixture of Grand Marnier and congealed cocoa made your gaze dart around instinctively, searching for the bathroom.

She was still frowning. You opened your mouth to ask her what was the matter when she said, in a nasally staccato, "Give me the rest."

You put the fork on the plate and pushed the dish toward her. The corners of her mouth pulled down almost to her chin. "Haa? What are you doing? You know I can't eat it with this."

Right. You had forgotten that she didn't know how to use a fork.

Minutes later, she was sucking the last dregs of chocolate from the fork that you still held in your hand. She murmured contentedly. She was still frowning, but then her facial expressions often didn't match how she was feeling. This was the happiest you had seen her in, maybe, ever.

"Anonko."

You wished you hadn't heard that. You hated when she called you by that accursed name. You might have liked dressing in gothic lolita clothes but you were still a man, goddamnit.

"Anonko." She had stopped blinking. Her eyes were darkened, the shape of limes, assaulting yours with simultaneous bursts of sour and sweet.

This evening was going worse than you had imagined possible. "Wh-what?"

"I want to have a staring contest now."

"What?"

"Staring contest."

You raised your arms in protest but then she raised her hand from under the table. You saw clearly, for the first time, that it wasn't a hand - it was a claw.

You sagged in your chair, deflated. She said she was going to do a countdown, but she still hadn't blinked and the countdown never came.

Helpless, hopeless, you found yourself getting lost in her eyes once again. They were punching holes in your irises larger than Pichu's anus after three hours of tough love.

You felt your best frilly dress crinkle under your ass. A rivulet of sweat ran into the small of your back. Suddenly, for the first time in minutes, she spoke. Her lips weren't moving. "Yah. Who is you?"

You saw - no, you really looked - and perceived now that her eyes had completely blackened. Her face, too, was darkening as straight and oily hairs began to sprout out of it. Her nose was flattening yet extending, and her mouth...its mouth...

You started to cry and instinctively closed your eyes.