It tastes delicious: sweet and eggy, like cake mixture straight from the spoon, but with a trace amount of salt that reminds me of something else, something from way back when, before all this.
To suck it up through the cord in one sitting feels wrong: after all, it belongs to both of us, me and her, so I try slowing down, adjusting my flow rate, siphoning off a sneaky millilitre at a time, but for the most part I have zero control. One day, when she catches me hoovering up the entire contents of our replenished food sac, my food cord bulging and throbbing, she pins me with an unblinking stare.
‘What happened to you?’ she says, after a few seconds have passed. ‘You’re like that fat sweaty guy on Man Versus Food. It’s obscene. Neurotic. There are two of us, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
H
