SORBETS DELIGHT

by James Kythe Walkswithwind
For Jackie

	The smiling was open and inviting.  "Would you like to taste it?" 	The
answering grin was enthusiastic, perhaps from the sheer 
amount of sweltering heat that wafted through the city in this, the middle
of summer.  "I've been hoping you'd ask me that."  His voice never wavered,
for truth be told although he'd often dreamed of this he'd never actually
tasted it before.  He knew what others said it was like, but like anything
else it could not be imagined unless experienced.  	He leaned forward
unhesitantly, knowing that there would be no fear of recriminations from
his friend should he falter, should his 
uncertainty about this new sensation be too much to overcome during this
spur-of-the-moment fantasy here, locked away from them passions of a
city in the throes of a summer that refused to die.  They'd retreated
here, with no more on their minds than escape, one regaling the other
with tales of snow that never melted away and cold breezes that never
seemed to disappear.
	The barely breathed whisper of a faint request had brought them both
to a realisation.  The heat had trapped them, and there was no escaping,
no turning away, no denying that this was all they wanted, needed, right
now.  Perhaps forever, but certainly now under the oppressive weight
of desire neither could turn away.
	He reached out, to take the offer delicacy, precious in all it 
meant- sharing what would be ecstasy if it were only offered but precious
all the more for who had offered.  He would not turn back, even if--
god forbid, he should find the taste one he could not tolerate.  He doubted
that, but still the voice of fear taunted him, until he opened his mouth
and moved forward the final inch, encasing the gift with warm, dry lips
and eager questing tongue.
	It was exquisite.  How could it not have been, that voice now 
asked, pretending it was the one which had known all along, had never
doubted and wished to prevent it.  He smiled, and remained where he was,
still, mouth partially open around the ambroisa slightly coating his
tongue.  He had a feeling this taste would be one he would find himself
indulging in as often as he could, as often as he could entice his friend
up to this hot sweltering spot away from the rush of the city.
	He moved back, settling on his heels.
	"What's wrong?"  His friend asked, not sure that anything was 
wrong, for the dreamy contented smile was message enough.
	"Nothing," was the expected reply.
	"Then why...?"  
	"I like it. I think it's only my second favourite, though."
	"What do you mean?"  Slight puzzlement crossed his face, though the
pleasure that his guess had not been wrong elated him.  He stayed where
he was, relaxed, waiting.  The heat seemed to have slowed him down, everything
moving at a crawl and no urgency spurred him to say, or do, anything.
	"This will always be my favourite taste."  He moved forward, 
then, leaning in close, hands resting on the wall on either side of his
friend's body.  Their lips closed together without a pause.  Outside
the city swirled again, lost in its own heat and unrelenting pressures
which bypassed, for one afternoon, the lives of those otherwise entwined.
Unseen, a wolf lay spread on the floor, lapping at the last remaining
drops of long-forgotten ice cream cones.

James Kythe Walkswithwind       	
jkw@aruba.ccit.arizona.edu  		
jkw@u.arizona.edu		"Semantics..sometimes words are a drag."
gila@jbx.com					-Streetcar Jones, "Peter Gunn"