She longs for liver on Friday nights. A sautéed chopped liver sandwich after a cultural event feels like a period on the week’s sentence.
She craves a bloody red steak, barely warm in the middle, when her hormones flair and dip, flair and dip. She longs to bite into the meat and let its juices drip down her chin to her chest, chewing with her mouth open to taste and smell the fat and blood filling her mouth and becoming part of her.
In the oppressive heat of the heartland in July, her mouth waters for watermelon. She chops it in big pieces like ice cubes and sprinkles it with feta and slivers of fresh basil or mint. It refreshes her and makes her long for her lover’s tongue, licking her salty sweat, in circles like orbits around the sun.
In the cool evening or in the warmth of a crackling fire, she hungers for the tongue slapping peaty Scotch poured over 2 ice cubes, without flourish, the simple presentation of the amber fluid whose complexity stands alone.
She longs for a long stretch of road with the Grand Tetons rising in the distance, where in the flatness of Wyoming, driving 80 feels like standing still in the presence of their magnificence. The speed, the journey taken and destination reached, the marrow pulled from the succulent center and her back falling against the chair: she is sated, grateful, and released.