Petrified, I do as I am asked and taste the lollipop. The mess of her chewed-up burger has come back to my mind; it is met by her liquid voice, the close weather, the heel of her sock exposed as she leaned over the counter, and the sting of sweetness from the lollipop at my back teeth. It’s her spit in my mouth. It’s her racing through my mind. I don’t mind it. It makes me sick. I like it.
