01 August | The Dopamine Hit · 1 of 11
She's in the line in her ironed skirt,mouth already holding the words:tenderloin tongue rump belly.
Sees her forearm before anything,sinews that make her neck flush,fingers smearing her aproned paunch.
At home she stares at the twinepulled taut on the beef,rubs the salt too slowly.
That night the sheet is dampwith dreams of being slung overher sweating shoulder,then lowered onto a wooden block.
Next day she is early, by the window.Waits for the light to come.She demands more meat,forgets to say please.