Undead(ish)

After Nathan’s knife-twisting schemer of a wife out-maneuvered him via court settlement to hand over the better car, primary custody of their kids, the house he penned a large check for every month, and a significant chunk of his earnings as a urologist, it felt like a real kick in the pants to come to his senses shambling down Melrose as a flesh-eating zombie.
        Well this is a real, fine how-do-you-do, he thought with the better part of his brain still intact thanks in no small part to Mensa and the Friday crossword. One minute I’m in the neighbors' garage checking to see if they have any moving boxes left, the next thing I know their three-year-old gnashes a hole in my knee like some kind of rat dog. "God, what a little fucker," he grumbled as the sudden urge to consume gobs of stringy flesh grabbed him by the throat and walked him to the corner Bistro where well-heeled trophies jockeyed for sidewalk spots fully unaware that the local Viagra doctor yearned to unzip their soft bellies like Saint Laurent purses bursting with strands of gleaming entrails.
        "Hi Shirley," he exhaled a little shakily, "haven’t seen Teddy in a while."

        "Hey Doctor Nate," said Shirley, "You’re looking a little under-the-weather." 
        "Yeah, well, I think the neighbor’s preschooler turned me into a zombie," he offered with an unsure chuckle. "Plus, I've been dealing with a messy divorce." 
        "Wow, that’s adding insult to injury," she said. "Maybe Frites has something on the menu you can eat?" 
        "I guess I could check," he shrugged as he got a grip on his appetite and steadied his breathing in the perfect half-mast light of a dying Los Angeles Saturday. 
        "I hear the tartare is very good." 
        "Great," said Nate. "I guess I could get a few orders."
        "Would you like to sit? I don’t think Ted’s coming." 
        "Sure. So much for twelve solid years of veganism."

         Barely able to control his fork, Nathan tucked into the mounds of glistening raw beef made sophisticated with dijon and capers while Shirley nibbled on the little, round toasts like a bright-eyed squirrel. So much for so little to show in the end, he thought at the quaint outside table as the palm fronds waved their shadows around in the Santa Anas like frantic women vying for attention. So much for all those dicks I’ve cradled in my hands with a sympathetic wrinkle on my brow. So much for the organized office of brown leather and perfectly feathered files. So much for the wife’s little peach-fuzz mustache. For my beloved ex-Porsche in custom orange fleck, for the two-room dog house I built on weekends for my ex-beagle. 

         "So much for all of it. I’d eat it if I could. Stuff it right down my throat," he said as the bloodlust of hunger cleared a little from his eyes. He smiled with a head tilt, "Let’s toast to being undead," he said with a toss back of Vueve. Then he leaned in and bit Shirley’s ear. Too hard.