stale days, fresh bread

“All off, thank you”, I confirm to the waxist while I lie back and think about the rest of my purchases and errands I want to run today. It’s our 3 year anniversary and at first I was disappointed this morning as you canceled our celebratory picnic by the river to attend a work field trip and left me between lonely sheets in bed. I sucked it up though. I truly did and decided to plan a surprise dinner for you instead. The farmers at the market load me with fresh herbs and spices and weigh my arms down with pumpkins, runny cheeses, aubergines, garlic and crusty breads. I cook all day for you, my love, a banquet of 8 different dishes and I wipe down the work of the hours from the stoves and kitchen tiles before dashing into the shower. The hot water excites my pores while I exfoliate and buff away at my skin. Through the steam I reach for body butters and lotions that linger in the air mixed with a spray of my favourite perfume. I paint a red little pout to match red nails and dark cat-like eyes behind velvet waving curtains of caramel hair. In the bedroom, I tighten up my corset, one hook at a time and slide my fingers down its skeleton pulling in my waist like gentle slopes and waking up my breasts. My toes slide into feather light thigh high stockings which I attach to suspenders that tickle milky thighs and I lengthen myself in 6 inch heels. There is just enough time to light a candle on the table and stir the pots one more time before you walk in the door and comment on how wonderful things smell, slap me on my bare bottom and to my horror leave it at that to sit, choosing the feast on the table instead. I cry a bitter embarrassed little tear into the curry and hope to god it upsets your stomach, while I suck it up, one more time, smile and hand you a bowl.