Would you write about one of us? he asked.
The truth was that I already had.
I keep everyone else’s secrets but my own. (Obviously)
How did it happen?
I told him I wanted to know what he tasted like.
He found my reason disagreeable but valid. I wouldn’t want a girl to say that to me. But no girl was saying it to him. I’d want to know what a girl feels like. Not what she tastes like.
And thus I have found another means of determining that there are two types of people in this world:
Those whose curiosity is set on sight, and those whose curiosity is set on taste.
Not an educated observation, but an observation no less.
The bar was emptying out, and we were succumbing to exhaustion. Yet my thoughts boarded a train back to a time where I answered curiosity’s question:
The answer is that he tasted like smoke and apathy and drunken regret.
I must have tasted of rain and aloneness and wild wonderment.