Page 92 of A Taste of Vanilla

Her mouth twitches. “How good?”

I point at her. “Do not.”

She smirks.

“I’m grieving,” I add, turning away.

“You’re also smiling.”

I press my lips together as she leans closer. “How good?”

I look toward the windows, then back at her.

The bakery is empty. The door is locked.

I lower my voice anyway.

“He had tattoos,” I tell her.

Her eyes light up. “Where?”

“Lots of places. And,” I say, because apparently the self-destructive part of me has stolen the wheel and driven us into traffic.

She freezes. “And?” she says, leaning in.

I look at her.

Her mouth slowly opens.

“No.”

I nod.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Halston.”

“His dick is pierced,” I whisper.

She screams again, and this time, I have to slap my hand over her mouth.

She mumbles something into my palm.

“You cannot just say that to me here,” she says as I drop my hand.

“Where should I be saying it, a church?”

“Yes. So God can hear.”

“Marley.”

“Pierced how?”

“I’m not drawing you a diagram.”

“You draw maps.”