Eat the
Saddle Last
—
Kirsti MacKenzie
ELLA TELLS ME I HAVE TO eat a bicycle if I want to marry her. No problem, I say. Ella turns up her nose. I haul out my old twelve speed. The boys watch as I hack it up with a saw. Jesus, Mikey, they say. They seen me chew glass bottles to get her to hold my hand. They seen me dummy one of those giant junk yard tires just to take her to dinner. Last new year’s I gobbled a chandelier one crystal at a time, slurped them like oysters, just to get her to kiss me at midnight. Easy, Mikey, they say. But there is no talking me out of Ella. Pedals, spokes, handlebars. I chop them into bits and lay them out.
Mineral oil, they say. Drink up.
Ella watches from the yard, sunning herself in a folding chair. Her sunglasses are big red hearts. She sips a lemonade as I swallow the bicycle. Neighbors gather while I gargle mineral oil and let the metal bits slide down my throat. Ella appears unmoved. When the sun goes down she disappears. The light goes on in her room and her shadow darkens the window. I open wide and slide a bit of the chain into my mouth like a snake. The rolling blind snaps shut. When she fetches the morning paper I devour the jockey wheel.
“I love you,” I yell. “Marry me.”
“No,” she says.
We go on like this for seventeen days.
When I am done eating the bicycle I eat the saddle last. Chew the leather and it tastes like dessert, like victory. Ella tilts her sunglasses down over her big blue eyes. Her legs are crossed and one sandalled foot bobs up and down.
“Ella,” I yell. “Marry me.”
“No,” she says, laughing. “Eat a plane.”
Nobody can believe it.
The nerve of that girl, the boys say.
That would take years, the neighbors say.
I wipe the corner of my mouth and belch mineral oil. Ella stands and the hem of her white sundress sways in the breeze.
Boys, I say. I met that girl on a layover to Denver. Cut the coffee line because I had to stand next to her. Ten people behind us. I ask her, are you going to Denver and she goes, now why would I do a thing like that. She looks up at me with a smile so bright it could explode the sun and I says, if you don’t get off that plane with me in Denver I will stay there until I eat a whole horse, bit to bones. She laughs then, just once. Says don’t forget the saddle. When they hand over her coffee I pay and she goes, don’t you want one? And I go, no, coffee hurts my stomach.
The neighbours go quiet. The boys roll their eyes.
What are you saying, they say.
I’m saying I went to Denver and ate a horse.
So here I am, in the middle of the hangar. Napkin tucked into my shirt collar. Dining table set up with the fine china, with the checkered cloth. Flashbulbs and microphones and crowds. World record people, media people, townspeople, tourists and rubberneckers. They’ll lose interest, eventually. Let them. There is no talking me out of Ella. Maybe she will marry me, maybe she won’t. But she knows I will eat the whole thing, bit to bones. She knows I won’t forget the saddle. I eat it last, every time, just to hear her laugh. •
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Kirsti MacKenzie (@KeersteeMack) is a writer and editor in chief of Major 7th Magazine. Her debut novel, BETTER TO BEG, is out now.
Website | Twitter | Bluesky | Substack
Mineral oil, they say. Drink up.
Ella watches from the yard, sunning herself in a folding chair. Her sunglasses are big red hearts. She sips a lemonade as I swallow the bicycle. Neighbors gather while I gargle mineral oil and let the metal bits slide down my throat. Ella appears unmoved. When the sun goes down she disappears. The light goes on in her room and her shadow darkens the window. I open wide and slide a bit of the chain into my mouth like a snake. The rolling blind snaps shut. When she fetches the morning paper I devour the jockey wheel.
“I love you,” I yell. “Marry me.”
“No,” she says.
We go on like this for seventeen days.
When I am done eating the bicycle I eat the saddle last. Chew the leather and it tastes like dessert, like victory. Ella tilts her sunglasses down over her big blue eyes. Her legs are crossed and one sandalled foot bobs up and down.
“Ella,” I yell. “Marry me.”
“No,” she says, laughing. “Eat a plane.”
Nobody can believe it.
The nerve of that girl, the boys say.
That would take years, the neighbors say.
I wipe the corner of my mouth and belch mineral oil. Ella stands and the hem of her white sundress sways in the breeze.
Boys, I say. I met that girl on a layover to Denver. Cut the coffee line because I had to stand next to her. Ten people behind us. I ask her, are you going to Denver and she goes, now why would I do a thing like that. She looks up at me with a smile so bright it could explode the sun and I says, if you don’t get off that plane with me in Denver I will stay there until I eat a whole horse, bit to bones. She laughs then, just once. Says don’t forget the saddle. When they hand over her coffee I pay and she goes, don’t you want one? And I go, no, coffee hurts my stomach.
The neighbours go quiet. The boys roll their eyes.
What are you saying, they say.
I’m saying I went to Denver and ate a horse.
So here I am, in the middle of the hangar. Napkin tucked into my shirt collar. Dining table set up with the fine china, with the checkered cloth. Flashbulbs and microphones and crowds. World record people, media people, townspeople, tourists and rubberneckers. They’ll lose interest, eventually. Let them. There is no talking me out of Ella. Maybe she will marry me, maybe she won’t. But she knows I will eat the whole thing, bit to bones. She knows I won’t forget the saddle. I eat it last, every time, just to hear her laugh. •
Kirsti MacKenzie (@KeersteeMack) is a writer and editor in chief of Major 7th Magazine. Her debut novel, BETTER TO BEG, is out now.
Website | Twitter | Bluesky | Substack