I am a hot little dumpling of a woman, fragrant pillows, dimples— I am a sweet and steamy comfort, silky victuals, spiced and biblical, for a man of pow'rful hunger.
We're old swords, my lovely— dogged, not learning from the two hundred years that our city's been burning; we're just ashes to ashes and in between, yearning.
It's what you wanted, right? A prime cut, cool in the middle and hot to the touch— toothsome and tender, fresh from the embers, a just-how-you-like-it bite.