Spanish boys taste like honey.
The child Delilah used to watch them from her window, playing football in the dust. Later, older, she dared to go out, lean against the hot, red brick and smile back beguilingly at their catcalls, fluttering inside.
Older still and she struts for them; she paints her face, wears a corset, stockings and heels. Each catcall steals a little more. They press her against the brickwork, cold now beneath the stars, the only fluttering the Euros they toss in her face.
She used to love the taste of honey, but life ruins every sweet thing.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)