7/4/11
I was playing / socializing in the living room / bedroom of a house, when I remembered that I had left some steaks frying on the stove. The kitchen was fully furnished in black marble flooring, dark wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and mellowed in a blanket of refined, delicate, even sophisticated ambient yellow lighting.
The steaks were bubbling over the sides of the pan in coagulated, rich yellow fat and hissing grease, a pot of meat, smoking and salted. The butter popped and stirred, and I grabbed a fork and dumped the steaks in my plate, a juicy pile of slabs of flesh.
The steaks were salted; maybe someone had seasoned them earlier. Using only my hands, I gripped a flank and stuffed it into my voracious mouth, teeth tearing in as grease slid down my face. I chewed loudly and with zeal. My mouth never closed; it just kept on being fed.
Everything about the steaks was ecstasy. I smelled the meat still steaming into my nostrils -- I was breathing hunger. Every sinew tore in my teeth, gnashing fibers and slivers of the tenderest meat, dissolving on my tongue, melting as I chewed. And my hands were always reaching for the next piece: one groping the plate, blindly feeling around for the next piece, while the other in my lips, fumbling the loose bites downward, sliding along slick teeth and flapping tongue.
I grabbed a bottle of barbecue sauce, but I don’t recall using it. I just kind of waved it above my head and shook it like a rock, as I began to hear music and danced around the kitchen table in the hot yellow light.
