She’s eating her ice cream, sugary concoction of chocolate and caramel, licking it from the spoon. Your eyes follow the dance of her tongue. You’d like to lick off the sticky dollop of taffy sauce from the corner of her mouth. Instead you reach with your hand over the table separating you and wipe it off with your finger, sucking it clean.
“We have to stop meeting like this. My ass is big enough as it is, without all the added sugar,” she huffs, then scoops the rest of the ice cream from the bowl, sucking the spoon in to her mouth and lets her gaze wander over the establishment, stopping to scan the row of colorful packages under the cashier.
“Is that you talking, or…” You don’t follow through the sentence. You don’t have to. She knows what you were about to say. Instead you glance around to make sure you’re alone in this small parlor, then dig out a lollypop and slide it over the table for her. She grabs it and tears in to the plastic wrapper, sucking the sugary treat greedily in to her mouth, glossy lips puckering around the stick.
Addicted. You’re both hard-core addicts, finding it increasingly difficult to hide what you’re doing from your friends. You steal an hour from here and there, precious moments when you sit and watch her consuming candy. It never fails. She takes the lolly and licks it, your eyes glued to her tongue and lips as they wrap around the white plastic, your whole body burning, that fire shining in your eyes and scorching that pink hue over her cheeks. She doesn’t blush like that when Bobby sits next to her or holds her hand. That warm coloring is reserved for you alone, as are her lowered eyes that keep stealing glances from you when she thinks you’re not watching.
Sometimes you try to imagine what she would look like, sprawled over your bed, covered in dark red cherry syrup from head to toe. That pink tongue of hers sliding over the fragrant sweetness, spreading it and making her skin glisten. You try to imagine that when you’re in your bed or in shower, but it isn’t working. That’s not the way to do it.
You grab the lolly and pull it from her mouth, letting it slide over her lips, smearing crystalline red over them before licking the red orb and taste of her and chocolate caramel. Chocolate. You’re slowly moving from innocence to carnal sin you realize, when you decide that it would be a good idea to stop by this small boutique you know before you go home. The sanctuary for chocolate addicts of N.Y.
You do it anyway. To hell with Bobby. To hell with Scott. To hell with everybody. If you can’t buy a box of dark cherry chocolate to your friend without getting condemned the whole world is already screwed anyway.
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