Oh, how my eyes have wandered upon each millimeter of flesh she exposes, from her smooth shoulders, to the mid point of her thigh revealed from her billowing skirt in the gentle breeze of the night. Her stride confident and elegant, almost like a model upon the catwalk, she decisively owned the sidewalk that she walked upon. Her eyes hidden behind lightly tinted glasses, just dark enough to allow her to look freely in any direction, without being noticed right away. A sly smirk hints at the corners of her lips, yet it doesn’t appear. The general masses crowding the streets seem to melt away from her course, allowing a narrow berth between her and the rest of the world. The street lamps glow so warmly above her, giving her an aura of smoldering tempestuousness. A halcyon phoenix, risen to burn again among the avenues in glorious relief.
Oh, how my mind wanders within the deepest recesses of lust and wonder. My teeth clench with the thought of tasting her flesh, my tongue presses hard against my velum, pretending to caress her most delicate flesh. My spine contorts as I revel in the thought of inhaling her scent, a fragile rosy perfume. My eyes following her every step and stride, as she makes her way closer to my table.
I pause for but a moment to sample the sweetbreads recently served upon the table. They lie upon a bed of sautéed wild mushrooms and roasted garlic. A mixed reaction erupts from the table I occupy, of distain and elation. My fellow consumers contrast the flavor of the sweetbreads to the bed its laid upon. I, however, sit in silence, chewing and enjoying every morsel that I retrieve from the platter. As my eyes open after enjoying my third sample, I see her passing ever so close.
Every fiber within me tingles as the proximity between us reaches its minimum. I can feel the heat she emanates so subtly. The tables chatter slows to a hum as they begin to receive their respective meals. Eggplant au Poivre, Chicken Paillard, Pot-au-Feu. They dine upon this “divine” and “sumptuous” meal, while I trundle through an appalling plate of Coq au Vin. The battered chicken flesh drowning under the dark sauce upon a light pink plate. I have to close my eyes in anguish to hide my utter detestation for my meal.
A wisp of her perfume lingers in my nostrils, as the wind shifted to give me another chance to partake in her, making my paltry meal a bit more palatable. The din of utensils clacking and scraping on fine china, a roar of uncultured manners from the upper class horde pretending to enjoy these elegant dishes made from the organs of wretched creatures dashed with the sauces and sides of exotic spice and splendor.
The night draws to an end, accompanied by creamy desserts and tart fruit, and the table begins to disperse. The genial goodbyes and hollow compliments abound from each individual to another. I grasp hands and embrace them as if I was one of their own, all the while I am completely disgusted in their presence. As I walk away from the restaurant upon the avenue, a chance wind whispers her location.
A small alleyway hints to a pub hidden from the main hustle and bustle of the avenue. The sharp tinge of bitter pilsner and shoddy shudders assault my senses as I pass by, the raucous laughter dulled by the old wood walls. Her perfume once again creeps away from the next corner, onto a rue. There, among the shops with their wares being packed in for the night, the warmth of the boulangerie’s hearth on the corner, flooding the rue with the earthy smells of rye and wheat breads being baked in the still of the night air.
She appears so suddenly from a petite corner store, a paper bag in hand. The smell of fresh chard, cream, and just ripe peaches waft along her path, taunting me to follow. Her strut has slowed to a saunter, giving her time to enjoy the night and its gifts, and I to enjoy her scent and frame.