There is a certain essence to his beauty.
My eyes followed his giant hands from pot to pot, their bulging veins shaking hints of spice across the bubbling cauldrons. I’m mesmerized by his concentration on each dish, the tick in his jaw, the slight raise in eyebrows, the quiet mumbles underneath his breath, recollecting recipes in his attentive mind as if his grandmother was guiding him through. Even while their contents were coerced into pans to bake, garnished and braised, his frequent checks on me set my mouth watering in anticipation.I came up from behind him and peeked over his shoulder, asking if he plans to poison me with this secret recipe of his. His eyes crinkle and smirk in response, focus unbroken in the preparation of his sauce–wine reduction is an artform. I sighed. But as I turn to leave him be, a sour slap in the ass reminds me that his giant hands are good for less delicate, savory ideas. This is why I like him; he’s good at what he does. And although his beauty is one I admire, I don’t love him.
His brutal, mannish nature is inspired by all things feminine, like competition…or questioning him. The sounds of easily cleaved meat on the cutting board, alert me to the aggression simmering beneath his surface. He loves to assume that I adore the ego he craves to expose, and I can’t help but eye the knife set next to him, gifted from my in-laws, wondering if he notices that another one is missing. I once aimed to please this man with delight, do exactly as he expected of me with my knees bent, and not tarnish his reputation as a seemingly kind and respectful man. He loves to assume that I adore all he has to offer, and he holds it over me as if I’m his pet, begging for scraps, devouring every raggedy bone he throws my way.
With my ass still ripe with the sting of his hand, I creep close and touch his hips, as if to stroke the ego beneath his naked apron. His distracted grunt of approval signals that I continue, as my hand slides up his leg, nail tracing a slow path of the blood now engorging his…
I came home early one night and heard a woman in the loft. I didn’t envy the sounds I heard from the bedroom door, he was rough and she was barely capable of enjoying it. But once I turned the knob to peek at his sin, I knew that I must wait to act on his deceit. I began carefully planning his demise from under his nose, his severed head to be skewered on a stick, by my doing. I etched the roar of his release into my mind, and stepped away from the door, leaving before he got up to clean himself and flush away the evidence.
He soon forgets the simmering sauce and we’re on the kitchen floor, naked, heated, lavished in sweat, drenched in sex. And just before his release burns the only delicate womb in my body, I reach inside one of the drawers and take out the knife hidden within the book of recipes he never opens. He watches me transform into something unrecognizable; brutal, animalistic, rage becoming a beacon for my crime, driving my blood, eating away my innocent flesh. He doesn’t fight it. There’s less screaming and crying than I had imagined when taking his power, his life. But I cĺeave the meat from his chest anyway, watch his blood bubble in the new cavities I create, my hands peppering the hot pot. Checking his eyes frequently, I grunt as the light in it cools to serve.
Yes, there is a certain essence to his beauty indeed.
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