The sizzling makes for shivers down the spine. It has smell, taste and sound. 
 There is cracking, slurping, stirring. There is the sounds of wooden spatula’s flipping. The sound of turning, then landing and then sizzling. The sizzling it’s what creates attention. Starts a new train of thought. There is background music coming from a new radio that sounds like an old one because it is cheap. There are sparkles. Oil jumping out of the pan because it had gotten too hot under its feet. Doing that weird dance you do when the sand on the beach is too hot and you don’t have slippers. Then there is pressing. Unnecessary pressing with the wooden spatula that has gotten black spots from leaving it too near too the fire. It enhances sound and smell.

Smell might the worst. A good smell. A smell that almost makes it feel like it has already been processed by you. The smell enhances. The music carries it through the room. Turning corners, curling up when hitting the table. You can almost see the waves. Backing up is useless. The room will soon be filled. Clustered to a chair it will tingle your other senses. Herbs are the best, but come secondary. It is the grease that spreads most. Like it known’s that it is not wanted, but comes anyway. A dirty ex that realises all to well that this is your regular bar, but still shamelessly sits down and orders. An ex that knows it can seduce you. Not because it is nice. But because it is there, and you have no self control. Maybe for the first five minutes. You hold on strong. But it knows you will succumb. If not willingly then forced.

It lands on the table. All is carefully placed on appropriate plates and in big pots. The eyes are not coming from the table, but around. The eyes that pierce every evening. Letting you know that it will happen. If not willingly then forced. The eyes that had been trusted, now shout nothing but distrust. But mine shout the same. There has been no other choice but lying. There had not been enough haggling. And the price was still too high. I don’t need what they are selling, but they need me to buy it. So who has to lower their price?

Taste is last. It is the last thing going in and the last going out. No difference seems to occur in the mean time. The smell is carefully blocked. Taste does not even get a chance. My tongue knows. Because it is mine. My body knows, and sometimes even helps. No taste. 
And all that they will smell is the lavender spray, covering up the spots that never want to be reached. Those difficult ones. Round the edge of the toilet seat.

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