Escort model Juniper, Rajkot

Pet par thoda masala lag gaya hai, bowl ke kinare se. The big steel bowl where mango, salt and mirch get mixed is empty except along that edge. The edge always keeps the best of it. I scrape that bowl edge with one finger and eat it standing up. Nobody watches and nobody gets offered any. A mixing bowl edge is a private matter in my kitchen.
Everything I like sits at the edge of something. Edge of the bowl, edge of a nap, edge of behaving myself. Baby, the middle of things bores me flat.
That finger goes into my mouth slowly and comes out clean. Stand at the kitchen door while I do it and the achaar stops mattering. Men have forgotten entire sentences there.
The bowl edge tastes stronger than the finished pickle ever will. Raw masala, no oil, no waiting around. That is what my mouth tastes of when I kiss you first.
I will hold that finger up and let you take it instead. One finger, then the whole hand, then the whole evening. Nothing in that order gets rushed and nothing gets skipped.
The bowl always gets washed last. Till then it sits with masala drying on the rim. That bowl sits between my feet on the kitchen floor, rim facing you, masala still on it.
Pickle sits in the barni now, salt with it, and the best bite stayed on the bowl rim. Same with me; whatever I keep back is the sharpest part.
Wash that bowl or leave it, I have stopped caring tonight. The rim carries your fingerprint now, right next to mine.