SmokeLong Quarterly

That kid, he’s as sweet as a Twinkie. He brought me a Mexican Mocha in a bright red cup, the foam on top a curvy little heart. He’s letting his hair grow, and the bangs are curling on his forehead like some guitar boy from 1967. Which I remember, being alive in 1967. He was born in 1987. Or possibly later.

I picked up the cup, sucked the tail of the little heart into my mouth, cinnamon, nutmeg, sweet chocolate. He watched me drink, leaning over the counter on his elbows. I knew I had a little mocha moustache but I couldn’t lick it off, not with him watching. My face flushed red. It wasn’t a pink blush, like this pretty, soft-eyed boy would do, but a real flush, a hot flash flush, and I had to stumble like a fool out the door, stand in the street and let the snow blow cold on my face.