A FEAST TO REMEMBER
Some women lace their paths with perfume.
I lace mine with danger.
Life, I’ve learned, is not a recipe — it’s a delicious accident. Sometimes an ingredient is missing. Sometimes the instructions are burned. And yet the final dish can ruin you in the best possible way. Like Jenga, every wrong move threatens collapse… and still, a masterpiece rises from the wreckage.
That night, in my tallest heels and boldest red lips, I wasn’t walking into a date.
I was stepping into a story that had already memorized my name.
Lilac floated beside me, her laughter soft as silk, as we entered the evening like two beautifully concealed intentions. And him? He arrived with the trembling wonder of a child on Christmas morning — a man trying to look composed while anticipating a miracle he didn’t believe he deserved.
He thought he’d found company.
He had no idea he’d stumbled into a ceremony.
At the hotel, reality tried to guard the gates. Rules. Permissions. Protocol. We were denied like a forbidden chapter in a holy book. But desire, like water, does not need permission. It simply finds another route.
And so, the universe rearranged itself.
A quiet Japanese restaurant became our sanctuary.
A VIP room transformed into an altar.
The moment we entered, something ancient exhaled.
I sat across from him, studying the way a sculptor studies marble — wondering what masterpiece or disaster lived beneath the surface. He spoke of ordinary things. I listened for what he could not say. Every movement he made was a verse in a poem he didn’t know he was writing for me.
A waitress arrived. Steam curled like spirits above porcelain plates. Napkins. Chopsticks. Order. Routine.
But I do not live in routine.
Somewhere between his sentences and my smile, the air changed temperature. One small, deliberate accident — a fallen spoon — became the opening of a symphony no one else in that room could hear.
I didn’t touch him.
And yet… reality tilted.
Power is not always in the hands.
Sometimes it is in silence.
In proximity.
In the pause between words.
Lilac felt it too. I saw it in the flicker of her eyes. A shared secret without language. A current passed between us, electric with intention — and he, caught in its gravity, began to unravel the way men do when their mind surrenders before their body understands.
His composure shattered quietly.
Like glass kissed by heat.
In that hush, something unholy and sacred breathed between us — a storm trapped inside a teacup. Every sigh, every stifled sound, every stolen moment stacked higher and higher… until he was no longer a guest at the table.
He was the feast.
There are moments so intense that they blur into myth. Time bends. Reality dissolves like sugar in fire. And you no longer know where one body ends and another begins — only that a transformation is happening.
And when the final tremor passed and silence gently returned to the room, I dabbed my lips with a napkin — because decorum is important, even in the presence of chaos.
His eyes met mine. Shocked. Speechless. Touched by something he could never explain in daylight.
I leaned in just enough for my voice to follow him into his next lifetime and whispered:
“Consider that… merely the appetizer, my dear.”
Some meals are eaten.
Others…
eat you back.
And once you have tasted me,
you will never again confuse hunger
with love.
hmmmm… Expect The after taste……
