Bitter Feasts

I know we’re going to break up tonight, because I am sitting at the dining room table holding a sterling silver fork in my hand, staring at a stunning array. She smiles at me. I glare back. My stomach growls. I am weak. She has printed menu cards on a heavy mauve-colored card stock. The calligraphy print is slightly raised and feels delicious beneath my fingertips. I have grown an appreciation for such details, and as I look around the room, I recognize no traces of the aesthetic sensibility of a single Best Lesbian Erotica 2002 Cover academic. I arrange and re-arrange the silverware as she comes from the kitchen with a final platter, removing her apron, which she drapes over the back of her chair. She told me to dress for dinner, and I did; black linen slacks, matching sleeveless tunic, new loafers. I want her to watch me all evening, and understand exactly what she’s leaving. But that Plan will only work to a certain extent, because she is also dressed for… dinner; a red silk dress, backless, with thin spaghetti shoulder straps, and matching stiletto heels. I’ve never seen this outfit before and I hate myself for liking it. I am beyond weak. I feel nauseous.

To start the meal, she has prepared focaccia bread with marinated vegetables. We will segue from that to grilled tuna steaks with wasabi lime butter sauce and key lime cannoli with mango sauce for dessert. I hate her. She sits on the edge of her chair, her legs crossed at an awkward yet alluring angle, dangling one heel from the tip of her toes. We begin the meal in silence, save for the sound of fork against plate, teeth chewing, ice melting, ceiling fan whirring.