Taste

Thank you, juzta mum for the inspiration:

Hot bowl of curry

I lick the fingers;

And taste you

...

 

 

 

Her soiled spoon rattles against ceramic emptiness. She mourns the loss of flavor the same way she will mourn him two days later when she allows herself to accept that he's gone.

She twirls her finger through the remnants of the meal and licks her finger clean in hopes that stimulating her tastebuds will numb her sense of shame. Shame for allowing herself to succumb to his charms, shame for accepting less than her due, shame for tolerating behavior she wouldn't have accepted from her teenage son. 

But all she can taste is his memory.

He isn't right for her; never was. Contrary to her own good sense, she'd put off clipping his vine -- instead inviting him to envelop her and blot out her sunlight. Carnal hungers sated, she slipped into a world where her needs outside the bedroom were irrelevant.

She had broken the one rule of one-night stands. But something about the way his fingers brushed against her neck made her dream of more. She told herself that she didn't mind his intrusion, but in chasing this one dream she had removed the possibility of any other.


She grabs a bottle of red wine, fills a glass halfway, and tries to see something other than emptiness.