BEST EATEN COLD
Fifteen when I first set eyes on him.
Seventeen when he fed me red wine, popped my cherry and walked away.
Thirty-one when he walked into a very boring cocktail party. I recognised him immediately; he was even dressed very much the same in faded blue jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up his brawny forearms. He scanned the room with his denim-blue eyes and I was immediately transported back fourteen years to another party in another world.
He had materialised at my elbow with a glass of red wine in each hand.
“I can’t bear to see a pretty girl not drinking.”
It was so vivid that I could even smell the crushed grass underfoot in the marquee.
I snapped back to the twenty-first century in time to see those eyes skip over me, then back, narrowing in recognition.
I put down my glass, walked quietly out of the party and hailed a cab.
Three days later I received a text.
Three days after that I was in his bed.
I rolled over and gave him my best slumbrous look.
“You wanna play a game?”
He was intrigued enough to fall in with my plan.
Three hours later he was tied naked to the bed and I was writing uncomplimentary things about his sexual prowess on his torso with a sharpie.
The photographs were an internet sensation.
Oh yes, revenge is a dish best eaten cold…..
© jane jago 2017