I’m always in awe when I reach this point where the curve of
them reaches the peak and I must squeeze the juice out of them, my palms around
each, my mouth watering for the taste of this forbidden fruit, they always the
greatest mystery to me, even young, the swell of them visible between the second
and third buttons of my teacher’s blouse in high school conveniently left undone
and I, holding my science book in front of my zipper like a shield. I still get
like that, seating in the seat next hers even though she keeps her blouse
locked tight, forcing me to imagine what that locked box contains, and how each
might feel, taste or smell like, her perfume lingering in the air between us, even
enticing, and I think of what I might do if allowed. Can I undo the buttons?
Can I reach in? Can I take a bite of each, juice dripping down my chin, always hungry.
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