The ferocious, yawning ache in the middle of my chest. There’s no other explanation as to why I reach for her, cupping her face in my hand so I can gather the heavy streak of sugared fig just under her chin. Her skin is warm and the jam is warm, too. Sticky. A complete and total mess. I lift my finger to my mouth and suck it off. The taste is muted, but there. Sweet and tart. A sharp burst that sparks, then fades. It’s the closest I’ve come to experiencing a flavor in decades. I immediately want more.
