My cold stare isn't watching you, it's literally penetrating you. Going right through, as though you don't exist. Because, to me, you don't. Or I wish you didn't. Either way, I'm not interested in who you are. I sense that there could be something interesting on occasion, but this is a rare flicker in the darkened swamp of my daily rounds. I can't describe what the waitress looked like, I don't know what color shirt the girl next to me had on this morning.
And yet, when I want to, I can turn on the charm. Make you intoxicated by me, curious for more, feel lucky for the opportunity to know me. The cruelty that exudes from my pores gives me some sort of allure and mystery. This is how I catch my prey...they come to me, but only when I want them to.
Sharing restaurants, events, recipes, & musings from Connecticut, where summer is a verb & happy hour is a state of mind.
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