His kisses taste bittersweet. I watch him pour the white crystals onto the spoon hovering over the coffee, his technique such that none might escape their fate. Three heaping spoonfuls in every cup. I tease him sometimes about his future career as a diabetic, and he smiles, that toothy grin that makes me want to reach over, brush away the hair that had flopped in front of his eyes, and kiss him every time. I can taste an undercurrent of…
