A man asks a woman out for lunch to a café with a pepto-pink patio. She orders pomegranate parfait and he fried chicken biscuit. Afterwards she gives him a blow job in his car. Next time they meet, he takes her out to a Japanese joint. He wants to do something nice for her because she drove six hours to see him. He suggests a sushi and sashimi moriawase, hot sake. She asks for a tuna roll and tea. That night they have sex on the sofa and fall asleep in their clothes. After abortion she gives him her oxies. When he is in town next, she leaves her husband and goes to a store to get wine. She isn’t sure what kind he likes, so she buys three types, plus a purple port, and meets him in a vacant studio. They open a red blend and pour it into solo cups. The cups get slippery while they fuck on the futon. Her anus bleeds for days. He stops by in winter. In one hand she holds a bowl of beetroot and nasturtium, with the other she lifts her skirt up. He eats with unwashed hands. In spring they drive through the Lowcountry. He insists to take her to a nice restaurant. But a nice place is impossible to find. He’s upset. She says it’s okay, she doesn’t care about food that much. This upsets him even more. A strange undercurrent is at works. The sky starless. Dark as a grave. As a walnut. As an empty gut. They go to sleep hungry that night and they never have another meal again.