Dialect of Taste

Another dream inside reality:

A lift of the fork, prongs of polished silver, slightly hidden by a tiny mound of nude flakes of poached fish meat, obscure tendrils of steam swaying upward from the just-from-the-pan substance. Laying the utensil on my tongue, the meat slides from it slowly, aptly, between my parted lips, the tender flesh left tingling from the heat. Buttery warmth spreads over my mouth like sun on a barely frozen lake.

Food is sustenance to my tongue and taste is sustenance to my brain.

*

The belly of the fish, supple, melting into my palate as it slides down my throat

The brine of it dissolves away the bustle of the waitstaff, clinking glasses and dim lights, twinkling like a city skyline at twilight .

Cross and recrossing my legs for a distraction of what this kind of food does to me as I look for a distraction and lick the oil and salt from the crevices of my lips, outlining them with the tip of my tongue.

Shifting on top the plush chair cushion, I curl and uncurl my fingers and toes, limbs I know exist because I feel them, because the handle of the fork balances between my thin fingers. And in looking at my own hands I think of his fingers that have wandered the places on my body that know its sweet perspiration and salt from long exhales and low barely audible sounds.

*

Another flick of the wrist and the curve of the fork separates a sliver of glistening fish from the rest of the fillet.

He curls four fingers around a mound of fish flesh and white meat, his nails and knuckles shiny from the oil, the same gloss that reflects under dim bedroom lights after I extract them from between my pursed lips.

The fork flickers under the muted crystal light fixture as I bring another piece of the sea to my own mouth, but I let my eyes linger on damp lips as I take another full bite.

He dips his dead and brings his fingers to his mouth and lips again, steam disappearing with his exhale and he blows.

The metal is warm as it leaves the confines of my mouth.

*