Like salt from a shaker,
she flowed into the room.
Sprinkling just a bit too much of herself.
Ruining the assumption of true flavor.
My taste for the bland is non existent
However; I need the seasoning to be just right
to taste such a delicate dish.
Nothing too over the top, but just right.
Lying on the surface, ready, waiting to be devoured.
Her mood changed when she saw that I had dropped the napkin,
Saw that I bent the fork,
dumping it next to the ice and wine.
And the waiter; that tight nosed voyeur,
Shrugged and harrumphed his way to the kitchen,
Saying there would be no desert. No tasting this night.
She thought she had seasoned me well, and left me to bake in the chandeliers and crystal goblets of this place.
Alas, she fell short of the recipe,
Foreplay burned in an overheated oven.
Burnt to a crisp in her little black number,
and over salted in the assumption of her come hither look,
and my desire or the lack thereof.