CONTENT WARNING - SEXUAL CONTENT
She used her thumb to wipe away the red smear at the corner of her lips, ignoring the brush of someone's arm against her back as they moved past her seat. Aysel had forgotten to ask for napkins, and now that there was a crowd at the counter, it was too late for her to go back and ask for one. She would have used her handkerchief, but it was white, and tomato sauce would stain it. Mentor Maria wouldn't waste her magic on fixing it, and Aysel didn't think she could purchase another with the monogrammed A so elegant and tidy at a corner that it calmed her down whenever she looked at it. It was clearly mathematically correct, not that Aysel was good with numbers herself, but sometimes she could look at something and know it was perfect.
Like the meatball sub with nine meatballs, cut into perfect thirds. The meatballs themselves looked to be the same size throughout, with an equal layer of marinara sauce across both sides of the bread. The only thing that was off was the layer of melted mozzarella. The middle had more of the cheese than the ends did, but she tried not to think about it. Instead, she saved her middle slice for dessert. Aysel would have purchased one of the fried tubes stuffed with more cheese and decorated with pistachios, but all she could think of was if she had taken a bite from either side, the creamy white filling would fall out and make a mess all over her black dress.
Aysel would rather avoid making a mess of herself, even if now she was using her fingers to wipe at her mouth before licking them clean. She really needed a napkin. Someone shuffled into her, knocking her shoulders forward. She turned her head to glare at them, but they didn't notice, too busy trying to push through the crowd to be first in line. Another thing she hated about Sognare il Crepuscolo was that everyone who lived there knew nothing about standing in lines. She had tried to create a line earlier today while shopping for Mentor Maria. The locals kept walking up in front of her, waving her off when she told them she was next. It was as if the idea of being orderly was incomprehensible to them, which was silly, after all, even ants could make orderly lines.
A commotion at the counter was loud enough to cut through the din of gamblers shouting over bets on the fighters in the ring at the center of the underground basement beneath The Great Impasta's more aesthetic dining experience. Aysel watched two men wave their hands and raise their voices louder and louder, insulting each other, their wives, and their mothers, all because they thought they were next in line.
"That's what you all get," Aysel said, pleased by the scene, although her face remained impassive, like staring up at a sky with no clouds. She picked up the final piece of her sandwich and took a bite. She was right. This piece did have more cheese than the others.
She used her thumb to wipe away the red smear at the corner of her lips, ignoring the brush of someone's arm against her back as they moved past her seat. Aysel had forgotten to ask for napkins, and now that there was a crowd at the counter, it was too late for her to go back and ask for one. She would have used her handkerchief, but it was white, and tomato sauce would stain it. Mentor Maria wouldn't waste her magic on fixing it, and Aysel didn't think she could purchase another with the monogrammed A so elegant and tidy at a corner that it calmed her down whenever she looked at it. It was clearly mathematically correct, not that Aysel was good with numbers herself, but sometimes she could look at something and know it was perfect.
Like the meatball sub with nine meatballs, cut into perfect thirds. The meatballs themselves looked to be the same size throughout, with an equal layer of marinara sauce across both sides of the bread. The only thing that was off was the layer of melted mozzarella. The middle had more of the cheese than the ends did, but she tried not to think about it. Instead, she saved her middle slice for dessert. Aysel would have purchased one of the fried tubes stuffed with more cheese and decorated with pistachios, but all she could think of was if she had taken a bite from either side, the creamy white filling would fall out and make a mess all over her black dress.
Aysel would rather avoid making a mess of herself, even if now she was using her fingers to wipe at her mouth before licking them clean. She really needed a napkin. Someone shuffled into her, knocking her shoulders forward. She turned her head to glare at them, but they didn't notice, too busy trying to push through the crowd to be first in line. Another thing she hated about Sognare il Crepuscolo was that everyone who lived there knew nothing about standing in lines. She had tried to create a line earlier today while shopping for Mentor Maria. The locals kept walking up in front of her, waving her off when she told them she was next. It was as if the idea of being orderly was incomprehensible to them, which was silly, after all, even ants could make orderly lines.
A commotion at the counter was loud enough to cut through the din of gamblers shouting over bets on the fighters in the ring at the center of the underground basement beneath The Great Impasta's more aesthetic dining experience. Aysel watched two men wave their hands and raise their voices louder and louder, insulting each other, their wives, and their mothers, all because they thought they were next in line.
"That's what you all get," Aysel said, pleased by the scene, although her face remained impassive, like staring up at a sky with no clouds. She picked up the final piece of her sandwich and took a bite. She was right. This piece did have more cheese than the others.
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