BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Loreta Stoica

Red White or Rosé

Before he ate he was shown the finest cut –glazed eyes, smoked ecstasy, sautéed perfection. A fresh fillet, his golden nectar.

She didn’t know he was hungry; he didn’t care if she wasn’t aged, loved the fleshy undertone of unripe girls. Drooled for the earthy kick of budding womanhood. Her eyes bled crystal salt, curing the very meat that made his belly growl, her bones wept platelets laced in saffron that made his mouth water. He spread her butter thighs over his focaccia dipped it in her pomegranate stomach, her treacle hips, until his fist was dripping vinaigrette. Scraped his knife down her crackling spine, then took the apple out of her mouth.

He licked his lips then wolfed her down

savouring the taste of what he did.

The umami disgust, the raspberry red rage, the subtle hint of tangy, lemon-yellow shame forged those flavours on his blistering tongue.