FicWad

I believe the PM's arrive as mail to the address you registered, but as you asked, I'll repeat myself.

So, what did I read, then?

I read about a girls I knew. That was not a typo. Once upon a time, even this old man went pubcrawling, hunting, drinking less that he appeared to have done, therefore being a bit harmless, but able to see what the right phrases might be. Studying, learning planning, calling it gut-feeling lying like crazy, like a dog, like a horny dog determined to nab that hot bitch, and that's who she was.
Sweet.
A sweet.
Knowing all the words, the moves, the little touches that does a man in, down to cinder, then ashes.
A pastry, the ones the doctor say you shouldn't eat, full of artificial sweetener, strange numbers that begins with E, but oh so tasty. Delicious even. Once, maybe twice. A guilty pleasure.

Not because it's degrading to the pastry to be eaten. That's what they're there for, but guilty that I touched it, tasted it and revelled in the perfect flavour, the tender texture, the sheer calculated joy a man can achieve by putting his teeth into it.

It.

The pastry isn't really human. It only exists between leaving the pub and leaving in the morning. The pastry has no dreams, no hopes. It exists in a pocket universe, ready to be chewed and swallowed. It never, ever cleans off the dark make-up. It was born in heels, and her body was actually made for a push-up bra. Nothing is inconvenient for her, except maybe kissing. You never bring a pastry home to Mum. You love it, of course. You say so, but it doesn't matter. Pastries forget.

Some pastries are so good you actually make a small habit of them, until the guilt adds up, and you cut it out. It's not good for you.

It wasn't her. It was me.

Vanir