(75 word micro-story #6)
The house smelled divine, like the intense rustic kitchens of the mezzogiorno. Broccoli rabe and garlic sautéed in olive oil, preparing to join fennel sausage and orrechiette al dente. With a crusty hunk of brick-baked bread and a glass of Chianti, a meal fit for peasants or kings.
She ignored his unshaven smile, his contrite caress of her bottom, knowing that before he would eat his next meal, she’d be gone. This time, for real.