Her red hair was suddenly blue, blue like a blueberry muffin on top of her scalp. I wanted to cup her and gulp it, gulp those mountain blueberry swirls, gulp her like the muffin she is. I wanted to eat her out completely. The coffee was hot, hot like me. I took a sip.

I waited for something but the silence was warm; it was a fine and kind kind. It was fine. Silence can be kind and fine with her in the air–she makes the silent air kind and fine I find. Yes. Kind and fine are the words for her.

“I like my coffee black,” I said, “Black and bitter like my heart. I do like it dark though, dark like my thoughts, dark like you,” I smiled.

She smiled, such a wide delectable, lickable smile, “Tu es stupide! Mais, oui, je aussi aime du café noir. La vie, c’est comme la merde, n’est-ce pas?” She understands my sarcasm and has nothing but quips and smiles about it, no scoffing from her. She knows I’m just bullshitting because I’m nervous yet calm. No, I’m anxious. Anxious for her, for longings past and longings to come.

“Oui, un mangez et fait chier et baiser et mourir. Pur merde!” I sipped my black, cold coffee. How did it get cold so soon? I’m still hot!

And I gazed waiting for her to purr some more. I wondered why does everything I love run behind the fridge only to come back out from there to nibble–bite after little bite–tearing at me slowly until I become gangrenous? Is that why I feel like a zombie?

Green, I am. Black, I love.

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Note: Native French speakers, apologies for my terrible three-and-a-half semesters college-battered French.