Page 41 of The Perfect Ingredient
Jean laughs. “You started it.”
We drink more. The lantern throws a red wash across Hessou’s cheekbones. Jean’s eyes gleam. I feel my soul burning bright. We’re free. Unhidden.
It isn’t filth—it’s belonging. Beingallowedto be hungry without shame or fear. It’s about the luxury of touch when we can simplybethis close, in public, unashamed.
I press a kiss to Jean’s shoulder, feeling it tremble.
Hessou kisses the nape of my neck, and I can feel his breath spiral down across my skin.
Smoke curls upward, mixing with the absinthe haze. We laugh under it.
Someone passes our table, eyebrows raised and a knowing smile.
Hessou bites my neck.
“Do you think anyone is watching us and enjoying the sight?”
“Yes,” Jean says, leaning in to kiss my shoulder and then Hessou’s mouth above it.
“Do you like it?”
Jean hesitates. Then: “Yes.”
The night dissolved into light and shadow after that, into music and laughter and sweat. Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, we quit pretending we weren’t going to dance. Hessou pulled me first—dramatic as ever, shirt unbuttoned and collarbone glinting in the dim red light—and I followed as if he’d poured absinthe straight into my veins instead of down my throat.
Then Jean, blushing and radiant, let us take his hands and guide him too. By then, he was too drunk to be shy and we were too far gone to care. He stumbled once, right into my chest, and Hessou laughed so loudly the entire room looked over.
I don’t remember the music that played. Only the press of us together, bodies close, breath warm, sweat clinging. The feeling of Hessou’s cheek on my shoulder, Jean’s solid build pressing against my back, the three of us swaying like our souls belonged to each other.
And they do.
We spilled out onto the main street long after midnight, Hessou signaling for the motorcar he’d hired. I can’t recall a word we said on the drive home. I only remember Jean’s head on my shoulder, and Hessou’s fingers laced with mine.
At the apartment, we drank more—the absinthe he’d bought on our first outing. Only this time, instead of sugar cubes, we used something sweeter. Something richer. Something that came with a moan and a kiss and devotion behind it.
That night Jean fucked Hessou for the first time.
That night I fucked Jean, both of us shaking and gasping.
That night we fell asleep tangled in limbs, mouths still sticky, skin still wet, heartbeats still wild under our ribs.
We didn’t rise again until the next evening, and even then, only because our bodies, it turned out, hadn’t had nearly enough.
8 Grams
I call itCrème Trois.
Because everything I love now comes in threes.
Three feelings in a perfect custard: silk, warmth, and sugar. Three tones in the scent of a man: salt, skin, and musk. Three names on my mind every morning, though only two ever pass my lips.
Butter, jam, and the smoke scent that clings to Hessou’s skin.
Jean’s neck, Hessou’s mouth, my own taste.
Desire, invention, ruin.
Lust, need, love.
