Kiss and he’s tradin’ currency baby, legal fucking tender. A splash in the fountain and the sink of a wish but the bubbles too small to surface a secret.
“Let me get this one, please, you’ve paid for nee’ly oll of my meals,” she says.
He reminds her this isn’t a meal and she stares into her thimble of coffee unable to disagree. What few crumbs are left on his plate he pinches together and tosses into his tilted-back mouth.
She takes a sip of his beer and says one day she might like something like this, but not today. He leans over the table and kisses her lips and takes all her chapstick and tells her one day he might like someone like this, but not today.
A burning pain in his mouth rises and he pulls away, trailed by a string of sticky red saliva that follows their kiss like a smoking gun. He touches his lips as she licks the blood off of hers. She smiles until her eyes get small and she thinks of him naked while he thinks about how she uses teeth and sucks the boner right out of his dick.
The waiter comes by and she runs her hands over the gem-studded wallet in her purse with the expectation she’ll be chased away by the tear of his boyish velcro wallet but she is not. This time, he doesn’t stop her.
His fingers chew at the butcher-paper tablecloth and he stares at the sugar on the table, cubed and stacked in a pyramid: measured, pleasing, and slow to dissolve.
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