Even before I introduced myself I scored her ten out of ten
for truthfulness: “5’9”, dark hair and
classy” exactly as advertised. Mesmerised by fingernails the exact same
shade as the chillies inserted into each green olive, by lips glistening as she
placed them, one by one into her mouth I contemplated challenging her claim of “celibate”, imagining her straddling me;
those nails scoring scarlet across my chest.
I ordered a second bottle, to be delivered to my room.
There, conversation turned to what I assumed was consent.
Until fingers turned guardian, became portcullis. When I further demurred, to
scalpel.
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