You sit at the kitchen table, eating an orange. You eat it in slices, the halves of those slices. And sink your teeth into those crimson grins and I watch, rapt by your body.
I sit across from you, late afternoon sunlight warms the nape of my neck and the
stretch of your shirt across your back, and I look at you
in admiration and desire at the sight of the
and the translucent red juice staining your lips and trickling
down your chin, your fingers, and over
your red knuckles.
You take another bite, and you devour its ruby flesh. The look in your eyes and the lilt of your smile was
and your teeth were so white.
Not white as in purity. White like the gleam of a blade and the snap of the jaw before
the wolf takes
what it loves.
Your eyes are dark, black, irises swallowed by a flood of liquid shadow and you
mouth split into a smile, and you lick your lips. Pink sliding against pink, those citrus sweet halves,
You lean forward and hand me a slice, dripping wet,
weeping with anticipation.
Go on, you say. Take a bite.