You’re out with her. Nothing fancy, just a stroll in the park, little breather for her between final exams and for you an opportunity to spend an afternoon with somebody who knows when to keep her mouth shut.
You stop when you realize that you can’t hear the echo of her footsteps from behind you anymore. Turn around and for a moment dread grips your stomach. There really is no secure enough prison to hold Magneto for eternity.
You scan the crowd, every nerve flaring to life, your upper lip curling to bare your blunt teeth to instinctual threat. That snarl turns to a rather crooked smile when you spot her, little further down the path, stopped in front of an ice cream stand. She’s standing there, waiting patiently, and you realize you must have been more zoned out than usually when you didn’t hear her call your name when she stopped.
You walk to her, dig out your wallet and pay her ice cream, large cone of vanilla.
You start walking again. This time she doesn’t follow, but walks right beside you. Usually indicating that she’s about to say something. She doesn’t. Her mouth opens only to let her pink tongue peek out and she takes a lick from her ice cream, letting out a small sigh. You see it from the corner of your eye, and suddenly that ice cream, and that delicate sweep of her tongue becomes your world.
Lick.
Lick.
Pink, slick and wet muscle twirling, battling with the sun over small lump of iced cream and sugar.
You’re jealous. Jealous for that cone of Italian Vanilla.
Lick.
Lick.
Jealous enough to light a cigar when she isn’t finished yet, and she’ll probably complain about cigar-flavored ice cream on your way home, but if you don’t stick something in your mouth something might stumble out.
Lick.
Lick.
And you have been thinking it’s the worst part, when you can see the play of her tongue over the cool surface. It’s nothing compared to when the ice cream is almost gone, and she has to actually suck the last bits out from the cone. Small nibble to crack the sharp bottom, then her lips curl around the waffle, puckering slightly, and you can hear the wet, slurping noise when half melted Italian Vanilla gets sucked in to the cavern of her mouth. Hot and wet cavern, that pink tongue coated with white vanilla, probably tasting sweet and salty, and suddenly you realize you’re staring at her, and she’s staring back at you, questioning look etched on her face.
You turn your gaze and start walking again, because you don’t come to park with her just to stand and stare at her eating ice cream.
Next time you buy her a lollypop. Big, round, bright red orb that coats her lips with shiny, sweet surface that glistens in the sun.
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