Sometimes I just randomly begin to burn for you.
My lips become a little looser. I slowly trail my unpainted index finger over the soft skin, running it off of the surface and onto the clear plastic straw, resting in the cup of cherry coke. I want you to watch my fingers as the tips gently hold the tip of the straw still. I want you to watch my lips pucker as I drink, watch every tiny bubble of carbonated sugar slip into my mouth. Watch me swallow.
I imagine you sitting across from me, the table for two, a big plate of steaming hot french fries. They burn our tongues slightly when we bite through the soft, steamy flesh of the potato. I ask for ketchup. You ask for more salt. I pass you the ketchup. You reach, brushing my hand as you take it into your grasp. You pop it open and you squeeze a thick stream, swirling it around, and around...but that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Maybe this particular bottle was one of the old school glass bottles...the ones where you had to put in work for it to come. Twist the cap off, flip the bottle over, smack the bottom with a strong, open palm. Smack it again...and again, keep it up... And again as I shake the salt all over it for you. You can tell me when to stop. And I probably won’t until I want to, and you’ll keep squeezing because we know that the fries are a taste little better when they’re hot and wet.
And at the end of our snack, I want to count the seconds between when you kiss me, between each kiss, the swipe of our tongues and how long it takes to end. Because sometimes, eating french fries together is all it takes until I start to burn for you.