'Body Beautiful' by Cath Bore
He’s high quality. Big boned and tall with good wide shoulders, his hair a little messy, but she can’t abide a fussy man, a flashy man, one who spends more time in the bathroom than she does. He’s actually quite impressive close up, with the exact right amount of muscle, no fat. His chin and cheeks darken depending on what angle she examines him from, one minute clean, the next with a shy acceptable five o’clock shadow. And he laughs at her jokes. So when he asks her to dinner for the fourth time, she says okay. He suggests one of those all you can eat places. She’s been before and liked it, so takes this as a proof of compatibility.
The menu is classic and makes her tummy rumble. Crispy aromatic duck, stir fried beef, hot chicken wings, plump chicken thighs and breasts - chicken everything actually - crab meat sushi, lamb sheek kebab, prawns in a nice spicy dip with a tart nip to it, pork ribs slathered with Chinese seasonings. She’s not a big vegetable eater but she gives the aubergine in black bean sauce a good go as well.
A double chocolate fountain is in the corner. She won’t drink from it. The last time she was here, it tasted of finger. Dirty gets, people have no manners. It matters to her what she puts in her mouth. And anyway chocolate fondue is like coffee; it always smells way nicer than it tastes.
He watches her eat. ‘I like a woman who enjoys her food.’
A backhanded compliment; how very disappointing. But he indicates at her up and down appreciatively, not in a sleazy way.
‘I like a man,’ she replies.
He waits for her to complete the sentence. When he realises, his brows dance and he laughs but not too much it’s over the top. He really is quite scrumptious. On the turn of a sixpence, he’s forgiven.
She’s a shallow woman, she can’t resist. And her appetite is whetted at his wide smile, one delicious with wine, she bets. Such a smile opens a face right up. You read and hear about his sort, flaunting themselves and asking for it. He’ll get into trouble one day. She thrills at the thought of what type of trouble that might be. A giggle burps up her throat and she presses her teeth into her bottom lip so hard it hurts; tastes blood, savours it and swallows. Her mouth waters, and dreams up his flavours. Pavlov’s dog is waiting to pounce, but she wipes her chin dry with the back of her hand, and bites into another strip of beef.