Just Deserts

All at once, we’re through the front door. Rain-cold, blood in the kettle.

Home now, yew wreath, gum branch potpourri, and apple cider begets an amorous look and a cracked open Royal Dansk tin.

Holding the butter cookie between her thumb and forefinger, rolls it down the inside of her forearm like a St. Catherine's wheel, says "It's still early."

It sounds like everything else; it's an announcement. Inside my head I'm licking the crumbs off, and inside that head, I'm wondering if she meant something by ”it's still early”.

The worlds diverge and she playfully puts her hoodie back on and I’m sure she loves me unconditionally even if she’s got a bit of a sharp tongue. The late months are narrow months (if you’re in the Northern Hemisphere) What’s a narrow month? You’ve got the Thanksgiving party and the gift exchange and the sidelong sun. What else could you do, besides all this?

“If we get the tickets now, they’ll be cheaper,” she impels. If I’m annoyed by the tone, it’s unintentional. I’m looking for a fight where there is none, and why would I do that?

I take the white paper baking cups out of the tin and toss them in the garbage. The punch recipe’s the really well-kept secret. The worlds converge again, the if and the and. She takes a bite of the cookie; it's halved. She's got executioner’s teeth. No, that's not right. She's the incumbent sweetheart emphasis on the sweet.
Coitus brings out the best in people - I could spend many idyllic afternoons here, below the floating dust.