Truffle Girl

Even the gourmet market had its limits. People came for fresh fish, thick steaks, a library of cheeses and dried meats. Even the caviar stand did pretty brisk business. But the queue at the narrow truffle stand was almost always empty.

And so alone stood the truffle girl. In a pretty pearl silk blouse, with her makeup perfect and her eyeliner sharp. Her huge brown eyes trying hard not to look bored. She was unable to keep from pouting though.

Perhaps that was her neutral state. Like resting bitch face. Resting petulance.

She looked Russian, perhaps. Porcelain skinned and a slight almond shape to her dark eyes. The angle was heightened by her makeup. Dark hair parted neatly with bangs. Coral pink lips.

I passed her little shop often. The minimalist display in front of her held four large round balls of the prized fungus. Each under a small glass cloche. Each sitting on a small round of marble. So delicate and pristine, like her.

She usually stood so straight. But I’d seen how later in the day she would lean forward on her counter. Sighing deeply at another day without a sale. Her pout became exaggerated as her bottom lip protruded.

It was indecent, that lip. The way her expensive blouse gave just the slightest glimpse of baby pink lace under it and the curve of a modest bust.

Would she smell of rich and earthy decadence? Would her perfume be something exotic and perfectly formulated to the alchemy of her pheromones? Fig and tuberose and spices I didn’t know the names of?

I imagine her scent a bit overpowering, like the truffles. Not from a respectful distance, but if one were to brush one’s lips across her neck and bury one’s nose in her hair, just behind her ear.

I imagine the scent would get one one’s hands and clothes so that all that evening she would be with you, like a ghost, making you hard with those freshly imprinted memories.