lunching

not really erotica, but they wish it would be. this is what happens when my roommate's boyfriend walks, pointedly shirtless, into my line of sight with a jar of peanut butter and a devious glint in his eye. haven't even edited it, but i wanted to post something. --k.a.p.

She has peanut butter on her chin. It’s adorable and pathetic at the same time: her eyes lighting up as she licks marmalade and bread crumbs off her fingers, wiggling in her seat at the taste, completely unaware of the mess she’s made of herself. It’s almost sad how oblivious she is. But, then again, she may not be the only one who’s done that.

‘You have peanut butter on your chin.’ Her eyes are kind and smiley, she thinks, wiping off the gooey love and slurping up that as well.

‘And what’s wrong with that? You’ve gotten peanut butter on your chin before!’

‘Yes, but I don’t hum whenever I bite into my sandwich.’

She doesn’t blush. She refuses to blush. Blushing, she resolves, is something for lesser people, people who are ashamed of their peanut-buttery mistakes. Which she is not. Because peanut butter is delicious. ‘Peanut butter is delicious. My peanut butter sandwich is delicious. And it has just the right amount of jelly, thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She leans her cheek against her hands and shakes her head slightly. It’s even more pathetic that she can be so touched and enamoured with someone who has such a sorrowful tendency for peanut butter messes. Yet here she is: powerless to the juvenile tendency of the peanut-buttered chin. And, unfortunately, she’s not the only one who’s realised it.

‘My compliments to the chef.’ She winks. Lewdly.

‘You’re cheeky.’

‘You love it.’

‘That,’ she states stoically, ‘is inconsequential. I have done nothing to deserve your impish demeanour and that should be duly noted.’

‘I’ll have my secretary shorthand it!’

‘You’d better not…’ She laughs and decimates her sandwich, leaning across the table to plant a messy kiss on her lips.

‘You’re prettier than her, anyway.’

‘Liars go to hell.’ Her smile is wry, though appreciative.

‘Well, I think you’re prettier.’ She pouts good-naturedly, giving her lips a long-awaited wipe with the cloth napkin beside her plate. ‘And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

Her brow furrows. ‘I can’t tell if you’re being egotistical or complimentary.’

‘Neither. I’m being happy and full and the sandwich was delicious.’ Another kiss, this one a little more guided. ‘As always.’ And another, this one threatening to push lunch a little later than the office will allow. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice has turned to a throaty whisper, eyes having darkened suddenly despite the brilliant light streaming through the picture window.

‘You’re going to be late.’

‘Oh, to hell with them!’ She bounces as if to further display her fury. ‘Demon servants of The Man! What do I care what they think?’

‘Because you could lose your position.’ She softens the blow a bit. ‘And I don’t have one to make up for the loss.’

‘Your pragmatism is infuriating.’

‘You love it,’ she retaliates.

‘I do.’ She sighs dramatically and flops back in her chair. ‘Such a cruel woman. I come home to find a most delicious sandwich and you in that frilly apron I like so much--’

‘I don’t have another apron. You set my other apron on fire. There were no other aprons to replace it.’

‘--And you turn me away with not a hint of sexual gratification outside of sloppy, post-sandwich kisses--’

‘You’re going to be late.’

Her sigh is natural this time, eyes surveying her quarry lovingly. ‘I know.’ She returns her smile, tugging her close by the back of her neck and offering her a real kiss: long and lingering, offering all sorts of promise and anticipation. She groans. ‘Tease. Vile temptress. Creature of the night.’

‘Whatever you’d like.’ Perhaps she will push the envelope. Just a tad. ‘Baby.’

‘Your candied words taunt me.’ She smiles nonetheless, standing and stretching, reaching for her briefcase. ‘When I get back,’ she orders from the door, finger pointing threateningly, ‘we’re re-enacting every bad vampire movie we can find on HBO.’

‘This coming from the woman with the briefcase.’

‘It shows that I am powerful.’ She tries to look pointed and meaningful. ‘Powerful.’

‘Until I tie you to the bedposts and you can’t move anymore.’

She groans, high and breathy, face a picture of true pain. ‘I’d hate you if I didn’t love you so much.’ She blows a kiss, lingering perhaps a little longer than is necessary.

And she catches the kiss. And then she is gone. The walls grow up around her, yawning and stretching, wide-mouthed in her loneliness. She is left alone with her edgy anticipation and the remaining peanut butter clinging to her lips.