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.
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