She is thin. She has no breasts or buttocks, but she insists on putting necklines, which does emphasize that his ribs.
Today we also see her hips: it has a low waist jeans. As it is very white, it seems that the bone under the skin is a Japanese ceramic knife planted in his pants.
I watch.
An hour earlier, on the kitchen table, there was a pot of pasta, three boxes of Camembert, two sticks, a jar of pickles, a can of peas, a jar of Nutella, ravioli.
An hour earlier I had opened the door and saw her eat. Back. His head was bobbing in a dance. There was the sound of her chewing on the wire of silence.
She had not heard, I pretended too.
I look up and down. I'm looking now on her body, where all that food has taken refuge. But nothing beyond.
It does not even smell the sour smell of spit on his breath mint. Her mouth is clean, the table also.
There is no record of the party lonely.
Apart perhaps in its orbit where its eyes freeze
in the slurry bilious
the bolus
originally published on FPDV
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