Truffles, black chocolate truffles, nearly unmentionable they were so perfect and dark as I knew they would be. I ate them simply with a paper cup of hot chocolate.
I was looking out at the rain and watching the meter, time slowing down in the daze of consumption. So delicate they were, the gluttony barely had a chance. I snapped their shells and swallowed: taste so exquisite there is nothing to do but taste. My silent moment, my reward, as normal a task as any. Dusted fingertips the only trace of it.
I do miss you in these times, but without overthinking you are merely another earth sign. Perhaps I don’t need another. Sex substitutes well with widened eyes from chocolate intake, fresh baked bread, it sticks to your mouth, tempts the fingers to go inside, touch, tip, sip a rounded head of macchiato foam...it’s all sex. There was the missing ingredient in us. But the missing link that kept us what we were.
In any case it’s not about that. It’s not about that right now. It’s about white bread yielding to white beans soaked in vinegar. White daylight in a pastry shop and Serge Gainsbourg singing while we cut vegetables.
As I passed my roving camera eye over the peaks and valleys of this burst of crunch and color, I saw every new angle as some beautiful, sick, twisted noodle work of art. 
Dirty and pretty.
Plain and glorious. 
Half eaten, half reverred.
Honestly I don't know what came over me.
