The waiter comes to our table with a menu “Dessert?” “We could not possibly!” I say, My husband looks intently into my eyes and Says, “Yes! We will take a menu”, Years of saving pennies and fad diets are Behind us now,
We finger the menu together, Going line by line, ingredient by ingredient, Sitting closely, hair raised on our arms, As if we were transported back to the malt Shop where we had our first date, No strawberry malts listed on the menu, We settled for strawberry shortcake instead,
The dish came, a slice of cake as big as my Head, strawberries as big as my eyes, The cake dripping in sauce the color of my Salivating tongue, A playful dollop of whipped cream begs for my Finger to dive into it, And a mint leaf spreads it’s foliage over top As garnish,
My husband nudges the plate toward me, Taking pleasure in watching me eat, Taking pleasure in me reveling in new Sensations I had never experienced before, How quickly we have forgotten to take time For simple pleasures,
I plunge the fork into the cake, Dangling a chunk in front of my husband, Teasing him, Inviting him to taste what I have, Pulling him closer and closer to me until, He succumbs to temptation, kissing the Strawberry I carved out for him, I wipe the crumbs from the corner of his Mouth, And he playfully wipes a Dollop of whip cream On my nose, Then he wipes it away with the same napkin,
My head found rest on his shoulder, The cake found a new home in a to go Container to be eaten later, My husband quietly paid the bill, Holding me tight with one arm and handling Business with another, We made our exit, Strawberry short cake in tow, To be used at our discretion, Whenever we need a reminder of simple Pleasures
I pat you on the back and walk away pretending you didn’t just glance at my breasts.
It wasn’t your fault. I was standing, and you were sitting. There was nowhere for your eyes to go but up and over and up again to meet my gaze.
We laugh, we sing, we have our inside jokes that no one else is a part of.
We argue about the little things, We argue about whether or not sprinkles should be a confectionery favorite topping. I say no, but you say yes, and argument ensues until one of us walks away.
Being platonic means I am there for you when you need me as you are for me,
that we celebrate each other’s successes and are there to pick up the other’s teeth when life knocks us down. We deny the attraction our bodies have for each other for the sake of friendship.
Platonicity is the epitome of having your cake and eating it too. You are free to woo your club girls, and I am free to date whomever I wish. When we lose love, we are there, and when we find love, we double date though we do not play the dating game because we know way too much about each other than our respective partners.
When my boyfriend asks if we were ever intimate, I will smile, look down at the floor, and say no. It’s true. We have done nothing more than a brief pat on the back or a hug. No hands held, no mouth on mouth resuscitation, no naked twerking on each other, but I know if we just allowed ourselves, we would make love like the slow burn of whiskey, warm and savored with a bitter after taste. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it or that I don’t want to. It’s the fear of the morning after. When our bodies ache because of each other and for one another and there is not one crumb left of our cake. We devoured it along with each other.
It’s the risk of losing you…of losing us that makes us platonic, and I know you feel the same way when desire is replaced with a twinge of pain in your eyes every time your eyes just happen to catch my breasts.