"Mom, can you please change the channel? We've got a child at the table," Tina said, settling the heavy hot pot in the center of the round table. Steam rose in fragrant waves, catching the ceiling light in slow curls like ghostly fingers.
Behind them, the radio moaned—slow, soft, and wet. A woman's voice, smooth like honey dragged across a tongue, purred through the clinking of spoons and plates:
"Let your mouth speak hunger… chew his name between your teeth… trace his skin like you're starving… keep your eyes up, tongue down… let your thighs answer…"
There were slurps, clacks, and the breathless rhythm of chewing woven into the broadcast. Every bite at the table suddenly felt obscene—like eating with the lights on in a stranger's bedroom.
Tina sighed.
