I saunter into coffee shops now. My heels click-click-clicking against the cold, tiled floors. Breezily I approach the counter, toss my long, dark hair behind my shoulder, and order a coffee.
Black. With room for milk and sugar.
Then, with cup in hand, I walk slowly giving careful weight and time to each step. Generously I tick-tick-tock my hips from side to side. I want to make sure the eyes of every man in the room is upon me. I want each man to see what I’ll do next. I reach for the milk.
Pour, pour, drip.
And then, with deliberate care and a quite uncommon flare, I reach for…the sugar.
Real Sugar.
I lift the unassuming brown packet into the air. And then I shake.
Vigorously.
Shake, shake, rip.
Pour.
Shake, shake, rip.
Pour.
Into the coffee it falls.
My adventures in seltzer water and late night lemon runs has signaled the end of diet coke, and in turn the end of splenda.
I am now a girl who eats raw sugar.
Yes, that girl.
And never have I felt sexier.