It seemed like everyone got their dinner with Hannibal Lecter except you. Not that you expected him to really notice you even though you went to great lengths to seem cool around him, but you tried. And eventually it worked out, since you were sitting there eating dinner with him.
He’d actually invited you because he noticed your persistence and assumed that you were onto him, and he was trying to see if it was worth killing you and putting your ladyfingers to some good use. But upon your arrival, he quickly found out that you were simply eager to sit down and have a meal with him.
“I love good food,” you admitted, trying to quell the rude growling in your stomach as you waited to be served. “I heard you’re the best chef around, Mr. Lecter… I didn’t mean to be so rude about wanting to see for myself.”
“Oh, you haven’t been impolite in the least… You flatter me,” he told you good-naturedly, and such a thing was true since you would have been the one in the oven if not for your near-legendary good manners. “Please, call me Hannibal.”
When dinner was served, it took all of your good breeding to not rip into everything in front of you like some demented wolf-child eating its first proper meal. Your palate wasn’t yet experienced enough to match Hannibal Lecter’s caliber (and pray that you would never enjoy the same things he did!), but you really did love the meat. It tasted so exotic! Was it lamb, or maybe–maybe some illegally imported meat like jaguar or penguin or mountain goat!
After you very nearly sucked everything into your mouth like a vacuum, you looked up to find Hannibal staring at you with a faint smile on his face. A hot blush swept over your features as you scrubbed your face with the napkin.
“S-Sorry,” you said. “I got a little carried away… It tasted so delicious…”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s no trouble to serve a young woman as charming as you.”
God! Did he have to say it like that? You were getting weak at the knees, and your hands were trembling. Not that they shouldn’t have been, true, but your heart was pumping for an entirely wrong reason. Infatuation! With a cannibal. It’s a wonder how you’ve managed to stumble along this far without getting killed!
“Ah, well, I guess I can come off as a pig,” you said, shuffling your feet as you placed your used cutlery on your emptied plate. “But, you know what they say; you are what you eat.”
Hannibal’s smile seemed to grow a little wider. “I wouldn’t say that. All I see before me is a beautiful woman.”
“Ah, Hannibal…! Well, I guess you’re right. We shouldn’t have to follow such an expression…”
He was telling the truth–like you said, you were what you ate. What you’d put down your throat was the remains of an incredibly vapid and bad-mannered supermodel who was so desperate for work that she threw her business card at anyone she could. Had you known, you would have been vomiting all over the exquisite tablecloth. But you just stared after him, a faint questioning smile on your face as you wondered what he was thinking. You weren’t sure why, but you always thought that he went around with subtle amusement in his eyes, as if he had begun a joke but only he knew the punch line. Ah, well. Maybe someday you’d get that second half of the conversation…
“…So tell me, my dear, did you leave room for a second helping?”