The steam from the coffee escapes the cup; it drifts up, instantly preparing the nerve receptors inside my nostrils for a tango.
I tighten the lid to stop it; it’s teasing me.
It burns the roof of my mouth as I sip through the tiny hole on the plain plastic lid. I color it with the moistness of my lips, dusty rose with a touch of saliva.
There’s a pumpkin at the tip of my tongue; it’s so small it almost slides down my esophagus and settles down in the center of my stomach before I have the chance to notice it is there.
I lick the spiced whipped cream that has settled on my fingers; I stop it from seeping out of the top and sliding down the side of the smooth, long venti cup. I won’t let it go to waste, pooling around the bottom of the container, making a milky circle on the cherry wood table.
There’s a slice of pecan pie begging to be fondled on my dull orange napkin. It wants me to peel away the crust from the gooey insides, and make love to it with my tongue.
I do, but I think of candy canes the entire time.
