He returns, plate in hand.
“Chocolate Tumaco,” he says, almost reverently.“Cacao from the coast.Passionfruit curd.Candied nibs.Aguardientecaramel.”
He sets the plate down gently.
More ceremony.
This man needs ceremony like lungs need air.
The flourless cake gleams, the ganache frosting glossy and perfect.
It’s a thing of rare beauty.A masterpiece.
And I feel nothing.
Chocolate was once so special to me.It was one of the few things that brought me pleasure in my tainted life.It tasted like warmth.Like love.
After all this?
I have no desire to taste it ever again.
Chef sits.He looks pleased.Ready to savor the last act.
He pours more wine, this time a ruby port.
Good choice.It’s bold, sweet, fruity, with enough structure to match deep chocolate.
Any other time, I’d be gunning to taste this perfect combination.
Now, all I can feel is the noose wrapping around my neck.
My heartbeat turns into war drums as I close my fingers around the knife again.
The room narrows down to only the table.
Me.
And him.
Across from me.
Do it.
Do it.
Do it.
He reaches for his fork.
And in one swift movement, I stand and lunge around the table.
I sink the blade into his left shoulder.
I savor the sick and satisfying resistance.
Yes.
His skin, his muscle.
