The absence of seduction

It was summer, her top was drenched in her sweat, she smelled like a hint of pine and magnolias

Both being my favourite scents, I stood there, and in one whiff knew she was too close, but it felt normal

Like an incence burner that had ash, from burning the previous night

I smiled at her, her hair splashed her sweat across my face, as she playfully marked her self across my skin

I stood there, wondered if there was something wrong, both in our twenties, both aware

Alone, willing, but she never registered as a desire in my heart, neither invoked lust

I poured from a bucket of water that was kept aside on myself, and half on her

She seemed to smile in sarcasm, I could swear I smelt a hint of iron, and a  signature of drying blood too

These could have allured me too, everything feminine, but there was something missing 

She never spoke of desires, I cannot let myself approximate either, even if I could, I wouldn't 

I rather sit, speak, be told of it, to let the blood thirsty wolf in me hunt flesh.

**The Absence of Seduction**

A man and a woman. Summer heat. Close enough to smell each other, sweat, pine, magnolia, and yes, the faint iron of her period. All of it registers. None of it moves him.

Not because he isn't capable. Not because she isn't desirable.

But because she never asked.

He doesn't seduce. He doesn't get seduced. He doesn't read signals or act on atmosphere or let heat do the thinking. The wolf in him is real, and hungry... but it only hunts when called by name.

Say it out loud. Then everything changes.

Don't say it, and he'll pour water on both of you and smile.