The streets are quiet for a Saturday afternoon. There are lots of Newspaper sheets blowing about in the wind and dust everywhere. It's foggy too. There are few cars and no-one seems to have an appetite for shopping anymore. John smiles at the cliché of the City looking like a ghost town. It is the first thought that has entered his head since worrying about meeting Cynthia.

They had met online. It is all the rage these days. Cynthia likes horror films, trips abroad, and is fed up with meeting Psychos. John thinks the same. There are lots of fake profile pictures or people with too many hang-ups. He just wants an easy life. Nothing too serious. Just a few laughs and someone to lend an ear on occasion. Cynthia isn't interested in material things. She likes eating out and a man with a good sense of humour.

John is attracted to Cynthia's photo of her Windsurfing somewhere in Malta with her blonde hair blowing over her face and a wide, cheeky smile. In contrast, she looks protective in her cream woollen jumper with the puppy picture. Cynthia likes that John reads and is educated with a Biology Degree. She thinks she can get him to try new things. In reality, though, John is a creature of habit. He is not as outgoing as he suggested.

He walks towards the Chinese buffet where they had agreed to meet on their first date. Cynthia was a bit funny about eating in front of John so soon, but he managed to convince her. A three-legged dog hobbles past. There seems to be something wrong with its eyes. Its mouth is foaming and it keeps knocking into lampposts, litter bins and a street sign as it approaches. The poor mutt is whimpering. John bends down to pet it.

"Come on, boy. Watch where you're going." He scratches the dog's ear and recoils. It comes off in his hand. There are white maggots or worms writhing from the fresh wound. The dog doesn't feel pain. It limps over and licks John's hand. "Fuck off! Get off me, you flea-ridden dirt bag." The dog cocks its head as the pupil-less eyes stream. "Fuck off, Lassie. Go away." John runs to the Chinese. He is really aware of his appearance as he smooths his field jacket down like it's covered in hairs.

The restaurant on George Street is busy. It's more run-down than John recalls. It looks like the electricians have popped for a tea-break mid-job. Some of the loose cables are sparking. And the decor couldn't be more tasteless. The wallpaper, from the 1960s, is peeling and there's a lot of dust covering the tables and lamp shades. It is quite dark inside. John thinks it's an unusual ambience. He looks anxiously for Cynthia. He spots her by the window.

John pecks her on the cheek and offers his hand. Cynthia leans in. She has a lot of make up on. Her floral dress has been ripped. "Did you bike here?" Cynthia looks puzzled. "I just thought your dress was caught in the chain." She laughs. "You are funny," she says before muttering something under her breath. John thinks she looks older than he had imagined. He wonders where all the staff are.

Cynthia looks over his shoulder as she swings her legs in boredom. They are sat on swivel bar stools and she has decided she's uncomfortable. There is a man who has lost a lot of weight but hasn't shopped for clothes. She thinks his frame is peculiar, while she watchs him tear into the leg of what is probably lamb. "Where are all the staff?" she asks. John smiles; he was just thinking the same thing. "They're probably on dinner break or something." She looks off.

John feels hungry now. He notices how delicate Cynthia's bracelet and necklace are. Then he sees the bandages below her neckline. He is thinking about windsurfing in Malta. Cynthia looks at her watch, but it's missing. "Where are all the staff?" She asks this like it's a new observation.

"Are you feeling OK, Cynthia?" She nods. Her neck is a little jerky as if she's trying to balance her head. John thinks that Cynthia doesn't think very much. He asks her if she's been here before. "Oh yes!" she beams. "Lots of men like to meet me here." John guffaws. He cuts his laugh short. She is being deadly serious. "I see," he reflects, after a quiet age. "Well, it's good that you're popular!" He wants to go.

"Where are ..." John cuts her short with a finger on his pouting lips. He can pass as a librarian. "I think it's self-service," he adds. Cynthia looks surprised. She is bewildered. John leans in. He has an odd thought. He thinks that Cynthia has the shortest memory, like a goldfish. He gets up. "Let's get something to eat, shall we?" Cynthia gently nods. He gestures for her to go first. He sweeps his arm again. She laughs. John is impatient. She obviously doesn't do chivalry. She follows him to the buffet.

There is lots of colourful fare on offer. The meats are covered in thick, red sauce that must be sweet and sour. It is irregular and looks home-cooked rather than overly processed, square and earlier frozen.

She is looking a bit shifty. Maybe it's the ambience. John starts to pile his plate up like there's a famine. He expects Cynthia to say, "You can always go back for more" or "You've got a healthy appetite, John." But she is silent. She hasn't got a plate. John pops his down as he fetches her one. Then he sees the axe embedded in the back of her skull. He reaches for it like a pesky fly. He isn't surprised by the new adornment. He grabs the wooden handle. She takes a fancy to his arm. She feasts as he pulls his severed limb away.