To Siolo Thompson

It wasn't premeditated.
        He entered the market with this one thing on his mind: sweet, tiny, Japanese oysters. She used to like them on the half shell with a shot of Jack Daniels nearby. Or Sauvignon Blanc before a fuck.
        Home, he didn't take out any utensils. He liked to dash for them just when the thought occurred. When the ingredient flashed. He'd get this adrenaline rush looking for it on the spot. Then he'd swear and cuss of all saints.
        Pomegranate vinegar. Last time they shared these strawberries. Mouth to mouth. Sweetness and the body of a dozen other complex thingies. Couldn't tell which one was her boyfriend's. Sometimes he could smell his cigarettes in her hair. He was ok with him. He was ok. Even if he was this irrational jealous character.
        Olive oil. Definitely olive oil. Aroused skin and labored breathing.
        A dash of sherry. Sure. Should have his email privileges rescinded when he drinks. Phone too. Learned this first-fuckin-hand.
        Tabasco. The rush of skin rubbing skin. An extra dash. Two. Make it three, for christsakes.
        Mixed them all up.
        Lastly, the coup de grace. Tip of the knife in place, pushed. A little cold, salty juice squirted out. Oyster blood. Pushed some more, then cut along the shell. Slid the oyster loose in the vinaigrette. Closed his eyes. Sucked it in.
        They used to do just that: share oysters. Squeeze hands in a rush, furtively. Kiss with this sense of time ending. Wrestle under the sheets like skin on skin wasn't close enough. Not good enough.
        The last letter was this silence. Unsigned. Anonymous. Indifferent.
Ice cold.
Hot. Lacy. Distant. Unavailable.
Body incarnate.
But just for a little while.