The words over at Three Word Wednesday are charm, feast and robust.
He sat, contemplating the feel of it, as it rolled off her tongue and through pouty, collagen-filled lips:
The remnants of the Four Seasons Martini dripped slowly off his dark, impeccably-trimmed goatee and was, at that very moment, puddling on the China between a feast of mashed Yukon gold potatoes with rosemary crème sauce and the lamb rib chop with quince jelly glaze. Untouched was the medley of baby spring vegetables, their color enhanced with their quick sear in the a pan of garlic-infused olive oil.
The slap was unexpected and drew a slight web of saliva across his reddened cheek; the cool Gin had helped soothe the sting.
He had watched her retreat, in slow motion like passing a car wreck, and though briefly that maybe she should have worn a slip under the little red dress she fancied for nights out when she liked to charm him – it being more than a little tight across her backside, and showed the defined etch of panty lines.
Now alone, he swiped the linen napkin across his face, reached for the crystal salt and pepper shakers, and gave the plate a light hand to the seasonings.
He then stared down the other diners with a cold, calculated gaze, picked up his fork and knife and paused.
He slid an elbow on the crisp linen tablecloth, rested his still-damp chin on the heel of his palm, lips kissing his knuckles that were going white as he squeezed the silverware.
“What the fuck?” he said, causing those startled diners near him to avert their eyes into their laps.
Furthest from his mind was the quarrel, the one robust insult that had lead to the strike, the doused drink, the abrupt departure.
Further still was the stigma of now dining alone at the featured table, a deuce near the kitchen where you could watch the celebrity chef shake sauté pans with a flourish and maybe a bit of flame, dramatic.
No, what he chewed over, pondered deeply, was that phrase:
Who the hell thinks like that, let alone talks like that?