Sweet Tooth

Contributor: Chris Milam

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She could handle a fork. The woman sat in a booth underneath a painting of a lighthouse emitting a dim glow. She wore yoga pants and a black V-neck and she looked glorious, alluring and edible. She consumed the pecan pie in delicate bites, the fork like a pendulum arcing from plate to mouth. After every swallow she smiled, which caused me to smile and we shared a moment, but she wasn’t aware that we shared a moment. She slid a pink and flirty tongue out and used a reptilian curl to cleanse residue from her upper lip. She caught me staring and used that same inviting tongue to brush across her luminous teeth while her eyes stayed on mine and we shared a moment that she had engineered. She emptied her plate and walked out of the restaurant. I caught an aroma of something tropical, evasive, and lonely and all I wanted was to bottle it and spray it on my walls.

The woman in white cotton shorts sat in a booth underneath a picture of a boat listing in a harbor. She ordered chocolate cream pie and took monstrous bites. She couldn’t handle a fork, she was graceless and erratic. Amateurish. She unfurled a gritty, bovine-like tongue to slurp cream from her lower lip. She didn’t respect the luscious pie, it was just a dessert to her, a wedge of calories and gluttony. I glared at her because she didn’t understand the rules, she didn’t belong in this house of fixation. We did not share a moment. I paid my tab and headed to the diner on Jackson that catered to a more deviant brand of clientele. They made a decadent strawberry cheesecake that would require a cultured hand to properly maneuver a fork into its velvety heart.

I sat in a booth underneath a print of Botticelli’s Map of Hell. My stepmother emerged from the kitchen wearing her tangerine uniform and carrying one of her irresistible creations. She nestled a fork against her elegant forefinger, carved a pristine slice and guided it to my quivering lips. She let it dangle and tease for a beat before she plunged it deep into my mouth. The strawberry glaze was orgasmic and succulent on my carnal tongue and we both smiled and a shared a moment that we’ve been sharing for years. Miranda could always handle a fork and she knew that I had no willpower, that I could never resist the temptation of her creamy pie, her wedge of edible love.

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Chris Milam resides in Hamilton, Ohio. He is a voracious reader, a baseball junkie, and a consumer of processed foods.
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