Spicy Hot
When she finishes her plate, she sets her fork down carefully.
— It was perfect, she says.
— The tiramisu is in the refrigerator.
She shakes her head, her eyes on mine.
— I'm not hungry anymore. Not for that.
The candle flame wavers between us.
— What do you want?
My voice is lower. She hears it.
— You, she says simply. I want you.
---
I don't ask twice.
I round the island, my hands find her waist, lift her off the stool. She slides into my arms, light, her legs wrap around my hip. The shirt rides up, her skin against my fingers, burning.