We met in the smoldering ruins of past relationships. I found your eyes as you sat in your rickety chair, relating your exquisite pain. How could I forget the unmistakable mustiness of the room, the scraping of metal folding chairs or the burnt coffee served in Styrofoam cups? It could have been any circle in any dingy church basement room but this one was dear to me because you were there.
It was your turn to share, and you were magnificent. My heart beat faster and faster as you laid bare your litany of complaints for a roomful of strangers. You were so angry, so vulnerable, so sexy, so un self-aware… It was breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once. I had to make you mine.
You dominated the meeting, talking for what felt like hours. Detailing the ways in which she hurt you. You clearly stated all of your painful feelings and litany of complaints. It felt as if you were telling a story crafted solely for my pleasure but you left me in a state of unsatisfied longing. I yearned for more.
I followed you from the room, picking up the tissue you deposited in the wastebasket as you passed. When we stepped out into the cover of darkness I gobbled it up greedily, finally tasting your salty snot and tears. I needed you inside of me so I could scent my way to you. Oh, my love, this first taste of you was heaven! I was feverish with longing.
With your sweet nectar firmly entrenched in my sense pods, I found your lair easily, and waited with giddy anticipation for your return. It took a while, you must have stopped for coffee, but no matter, the longer the separation, the sweeter the reunion, or some such human saying. You left plenty of used tissues in the room for me to explore. I was able to work myself into quite a frenzy by the time I finally heard footsteps, your unmistakable, shuffling lurch, in the hallway.
My stomach leapt with anticipation as I heard your keys in the lock, opening the door at last. You were, as I had hoped, utterly depressed. I’ll never understand why you humans think support groups are helpful but I’m not complaining. Your pain is more delicious than any other species in the universe, tentacles down. I attached myself to your heartache and began to feed and feed and feed… you were nearly unendingly full of despair… until your life force gave out and I was finally satiated by the rattle of your final despondent breath. Broken Heart Syndrome was the cause of death. Ironically, my heart also broke from losing you. Only a major feed could heal it. I would need to hunt immediately.