Desire and Disgust: Fusion Cuisine
Michael Stokes-Byrne
A noxious mix of scents wafted from the Soul-Food Café. Black fungus-stuffed racoon. Sun-baked, festering mayonnaise. A miasma of sautéed, leprous flesh.
Veronica saw him immediately. Brad was impossible to miss.
“You look divine.” Too porcine to rise, he gestured welcomingly to the steaming mug across the table, as mucous-smothered tentacles rose up from his plate to caress his sweating jowls.
“Decaf-soy-mocha-chino, was it not?” The roll of his demonic voice was elegant, and stimulated something deep inside her. “I hope it’s acceptable that I’ve already begun?”
“Yes. No. I mean…that’s perfect,” she sang, folding feathered wings behind her as the waiter-slug exchanged her high back chair for a stool. “That looks interesting.”
