1. Dan startles, head snapping back and hitting the wall. His breath is fast. Shallow. His pupils are dilated. Palms clammy. You start to pull away, start to say, "Sorry, so, right, so-"
He leans in fast, swoops in, and his lips are chapped.
2. You burnt the toast again, so the kitchen smells like autumn and ash. Dan smirks over his coffee cup, all smug and self-assured and alive; and you can't help it, you don't even want to, you lick the too-sweet coffee from behind his molars and he laughs into your mouth.
3. You quit smoking on a Tuesday. Dan buys you gum of all shapes and flavors-- minty, fruity, sugar-free and not-so-sugar-free, gumballs and Bazookas and regular old sticks-- and he leaves it on the nightstand, under your pillow, all over the house and in your glove box and inside the Very Last Pack Ever you bought Monday night. You're ready to give up, to unquit, by Tuesday evening, but Dan's lying on top of you, weighing you down, and when he kisses you he tells you he loves the taste of cinnamon.
4. Buddy stops by for coffee sometimes, and Dan always excuses himself, awkward and quiet and "um, I've got-"
So when Buddy's car pulls up this morning, tires loud on the gravel, and Dan's face goes blank and tight, you reach across the table and pull him toward you. Your fingers play with the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and you kiss him soft and gentle and wet. He doesn't try to pull away.
5. You give him this book you ordered special from the mainland, all about cowboys and the mythology of the Hollywood Western. He tears into the paper like a kid.
His hands pull at your hair, rough and tight and desperate, and he bites at your upper lip. Pine needles scratch your arms. The book digs into your spine. Dan tastes like the pancakes you ate for breakfast and also blueberries, and all you can do is hold on. Bite back.
*fin.
[once more into the fray]