The Jar of Olives

The jar of olives sat on the table. The bare pine was scrubbed and spit-clean and the sun casually looking in at the window added warmth to the wood.

Black olives, smart, smooth, glossy, mature.
A sensual pleasure on the tongue that curls round its rich splendidness.

Green olives, full-bodied and sumptuous. Sophisticated and succulent.

Green and black.

Like the chocolate, also lying on the table, Green and Blacks. The unwrapped end revealing its treasure and spilling the smallest of crumbs onto the surface. A delicate mix of suaveness and naivety.

She leaned across and stroked his bare arm. Looking up she met the all-seeing sloe-black eyes that looked into her soul.

She was so green.