I was scared of her at first. From her picture, she was intimidating, yes, but the decorations on her wall and the clothes she wore - so intricately carved with some texture and fabric I could not place - made me feel a sense of primal terror. With her darkened eyes and perfectly-primped hair, she looked as if she could, and would, eat me up in a heartbeat.

“I’ve made us dinner,” she said at the door, leading me in. I thanked her, trying not to show her how worried I was. I sat at the table, dropping the flowers I had brought as a gift down nearby. With a smile, said she didn’t want them.

The plate she put before me was red. Red stoneware, with red meat on top. Raw. Barely seared on one side. Beets. Tomatoes.

“The meat is fresh from today. Today’s catch,” she said, waiting for me to take a bite as she served herself wine from a goblet. But the wine was awfully thick …

I took a bite and released all of my fear. She was the real deal: this meat was human.

“I was worried you weren’t who you said you were!” I laughed, clapping my hands.

She smiled, wiping blood from her lips with a white cloth.

“Why would I invite a fellow . . . conosseiur over if I wasn’t?”

We finished our dinner with a jovial sense of childish fun, and when I left I promised her I’d see her again just as soon as she had her next catch.