Good Meat

‘You insulate me,’ Ramanathan said, lying underneath, warm and taut like baked bread.

I melted like mozzarella on a pizza. Oh, the pleasures of biting into hot crisp dough overwhelmed with steaming salty goo.

We were huddled four thousand feet above sea-level inside a tent during a hailstorm. Food rations had ran out three days ago. It was the perfect time to line the sleeping bag with our bodies.

‘Remember, we roll the dice in the morning,’ I said, recapping our covenant, ‘though I’d much rather have you alive than dead.’

I sighed.

‘Hey!’ He was offended, ‘I am good meat.’

*

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