her predominant odour

Her predominant odour amongst the many was of bacon grease, off-putting at first but soon rich and complex and wonderful, to the very roots of her hair. I would crisp her up and then consume her ravenously, move her stench around my mouth with every gulp. When I walked past a certain type of café I would pause and double take, expecting to see her inviting me into shadows and doorways, but it was only the smell of the cooking food. “Cook me!” she’d command, among the more passionate times in which we found ourselves engaged. “Press me down in the pan! Flip me over and do it again! Mop the juice off with kitchen towel! Plate me up!” Yes! I’d reply, and mean it. Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Slathered in butter, condiments, garnishes, even, I’d take it all in, right down to the oily residue beneath the roots of her breasts and on her pink palms and at the backs of her ears and to the last vagina, left tantalizingly prepped like a handful of decent rashers waiting for the grill before my hungry eyes.