Her cheap perfume

Her cheap perfume overpowers the burning onions. She must have sprayed between her breasts, barely contained in her dress. She is moving her lips, prattling on about the latest movies, hinting, no doubt, that I should take her. Instead I watch her forehead creasing and uncreasing, as drops begin to form between the lines. Is it the heat from the boiling pot of pasta, or is it discomfort from my cold unblinking stare? She shifts her weight from left and right, and stirs.

She believes a home-cooked meal is all it takes. She thinks her new blue breasts will entice me. But none of this makes me want to be here. Not the spaghetti sauce, not the lobster in the oven, nor the swaying hips, nor the powdered arms. Her make-up slimy, her lips engorged, her face is barely more enthralling than her conversation. No. Not what she thinks.

I sit back, and let out a deliberate sigh. Her face brightens, though she tries to hide her smile. She thinks it's her seduction holding my gaze, but my eyes are unfocused, and I think of swimming away.