Such Jones

Not too little. Not too much -

I once cried over the ninth plate of a sixteen course tasting menu. A tear rolled off my cheek and hit the gold foil perched atop the slice of salmon sashimi that had just been presented to me on a small, handmade clay plate. The plate was so beautiful. The salmon itself was the most luminous hunk of meat I’d ever laid eyes on. The wisp of gold foil? Edible. But I was already so full. The head chef of the Michelin star restaurant had just made the dish in front of me and slid it across the bar. He stood there watching my mouth. Which remained closed. I could not fathom opening it. That’s when the tears started. “Please,” I sobbed. “It’s exquisite. But I can’t take it in.” “I can’t EAT it,” I ugly cried. As my dinner companion looked at me in horror, I realized that we still had eight more courses to go. And that when we returned home, I was expected to still be . . . active?! Let me tell you about myself. I’m no sixteen course tasting menu. I aint a Lunchable, either. The thing that matters is finding good fit. - I come to the city once or twice a month. I’m choosy about who I meet. I don’t charge the most, but I only see you if I like you. After a few days, I go home to the forest. I sit on my back porch and smell the scent of pine needles. I watch birds fly above the trees. I let my heart rate settle. Do you think you might fit me? Come take a little time with me. My long dark hair that falls to my narrow waist, my big brown eyes, my firm mouth. Make some room. Linger.