jumbo kalamata olives

She is sitting at the bar, eating jumbo Kalamata olives
They are slick with herb infused
extra virgin
olive oil.

She sucks each one like a religion, a tantric workshop, a yoga class. Her mouth is slow and wet and open, lips like a Salvador Dali wet dream. A surrealist platitude to moistness. If I was more confident, I would approach her with damp paper napkins and offer to sponge off the dribbles which make her chin glisten in the candlelight. But instead, I sit at my table, sip whiskey, clink ice cubes round the glass.
Adjust my bag discretely across my lap.
She takes another olive to that mouth.

I start to create fantasies around the olive. They are unrepeatable, and involve frequent references to ******. I imagine feeding her olives slowly on her oil stained mattress, pushing their greasy flesh into her loose tongued mouth. Spitting the firm stones into an empty gin glass on the bedside table.


The manager is looking at me like I just spat on his wife.