She began the new diet five days before their first date. She wasn’t sure where she had read about it — the strictly-fruit-and-veggie diet— but this seemed like the perfect opportunity. She renounced all meats, gave up gluten and artificial sugar, corn syrup, really all the fun stuff. She needed to become irresistible, tantalizing, if she wanted to hook this man.
It just took so much effort to meet a decent man and then to suss out his intentions. These days, she rarely found a contender, and now that she had, she knew she had to be quick. The most important thing about the first date was securing a second one, and, of course, a third. And with this new regimen, she would allow him to sink his mitts into her and never let go. She would not fail. She had tired of wasting her time.
They had met in line at the grocery store. She couldn’t quite remember how but she imagined they probably both reached for the same shiny pink lady apple. He had nice, straight teeth, a friendly mouth, and his pants had been freshly pressed. She relished in the idea of recounting this meet-cute to friends, family, and their future children, of course.
She had been with men before — dated throughout high school, college, her first years working — but the well kept drying up and now, she was at risk of it too. Drying up completely. Every meeting felt all the more official; it all counted so much more. These days, when she was under a man, she was under a deadline, too.
She was grateful it was spring, edging into summer, when her food options were plentiful. She gayly sauntered in the aisles of her local grocery store. For the first week of the diet, she ate only the freshest of fruits and the sweetest of vegetables, assembling elaborate salads of sliced strawberries, whole blueberries, and a medley of cherry tomatoes. She would pop the tomatoes in her mouth like candy at a movie theater.
On their first date, despite all her nerves, she found herself to be exceedingly charming. After the date had ended, he sealed the second one with a kiss. Then, before he could stop himself, he kissed her again, more forcefully. He smacked his lips, licking each corner.
“Incredible!” he cried.
He wanted to see her again the next day but she needed time to prepare herself. For the next four days, she ate only honey-drizzled figs, apricots, and raspberries. Before they had even sat down at the bar, he was kissing her once more.
“My doll with lips of sorbet!”
Within a month, she really did not miss the fine flesh of cod or the soft crunch of bread. The snapping of carrots and celery sticks was just as satisfying. And the diet continued with wild success. She found great fulfillment in idling in the farmer’s markets, plucking soft peaches, juice-laden nectarines, and deep pink watermelons. She made bowls of mint and cucumber, topped with a citrus assortment of tangerines and oranges. She experimented with smoking her fruits, sweet-pickling her vegetables, and ate rosemary, thyme, and basil by the spoonful. With each kiss they shared, he needed seconds. The less he could resist her, the more she felt her heart ripen.
And just as it was good for sinking her man, it was well and good for her body, too. She enjoyed bringing her clothes to the local tailor to be taken in once, twice, three times. But she knew that as September disappeared into October, her options would become less and less flavorful. Juicy plums and cherries never tasted the same when they had to cross an equator to reach her lips. He would notice. She had to adapt. Yes, yes, there was something less appealing about heavy meats, laden with butter and smoked salmon smothered in dairy, but what else was a gal to do? If she kept him hungry, maybe he would not mind the new menu. She put him off for a few weeks, feigned deadlines and an early Autumn cold.
She wanted to start slow: introducing subtle-tasting fishes and earthy vegetables she coated in sweet balsamic. She had been very careful, as the first flesh of fish nearly sent her running back to the fishmonger for a second and third tripe. And when they were finally reunited, after some weeks apart, she was as anxious as the first date and terribly worried the recipes needed more time for full effect. What if she didn’t please his palette anymore? But by the end of their reunion, she knew her unease had been for nothing: he was as delighted and voracious as always.
Now, she could cater herself expertly. He would nibble the stem of her neck and whisper in her ear how her smell reminded him of the warmth of Christmases at home, thanks to the ginger, cardamom, and turkey she had eaten for every meal the past three days. He would press his lips to her thighs and swear the blackberry scent of her skin tinted his lips. She imagined the women of his past, how they must have tasted of instant noodles, cheap beer, and pepperoni slices.
He craved her and grew horribly irritable if they spent too much time apart. He ate more meals: breakfast two or three times, a large lunch and hearty snack with an ample dinner. As he grew in his size, so did his affections for her.
For their first anniversary, she prepared a feast worthy of his palette. She practiced the meal in its entirety every day for a full week before their anniversary. For every bite she made, she ate one too. The meal was an ode to their relationship, and what a ballad!
She started with the frisée salad they had shared on their first date, then a cold tomato soup with roasted yellow peppers, pecorino, and a grating of nutmeg and to dip? Freshly baked levain bread, to remind him of their first morning together. For the third course, an apple liqueur and sorbet to cleanse his palette. She stewed his mother’s recipe for bolognese, served with penne she had handmade in a machine he had bought. She shaved white truffle onto their plates. She slow-roasted a decadent porterhouse which she flanked with black-garlic aioli, green onions and yellow wax beans. For dessert, bananas foster with a toppling of sweet berries.
He was intoxicated, raving his way through the salad, soup, and pasta. He took three servings of the palette cleanser, a second helping of porterhouse. He declared he would not be satisfied until she had to returned the kitchen to flambé another large bunch of bananas. As the stove clicked on, she was so happy she could have burst.
When she returned with a row of crystalizing, caramelized bananas, she placed the dish on the table. She delicately sat on his knee. He kissed her. His face was flushed. His stomach was distended. His brow was drenched in sweat. Her wicker dining chairs squeaked unhappily beneath them. He licked his lips, once, twice, three times, and that was the last thing she saw before he devoured her entirely.
Sophie Nunberg is a French-American writer from San Francisco, California. A recovering fog baby, she currently lives in Milwaukee where she is pursuing a PhD. You can find her online as @fwarg.
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