Thick rolls of noodles whose dips and ridges give from the press of my tongue. Oil, the nutty, faintly salty taste, hesitant to the sharp crisp of peppers and onions. Ceramic bowl glazed with gold, the translucent glow of sauce that catches the streetlights and reflects like sweat.
Rows of bottles, the tops: piano keys, some pressed, some poised--a kaleidoscope of liquid and glass, the shrug of their labels and names that cradle and slosh in the mouth--Malibu, Dartwin, Montefalco. Twin shades of brown, green, white--like rolling the mountains flat with a pin.
The lopsided pack of his hair--a brittle mesh of black and gray, that hangs tight, brash curls, too far on his right ear but just far enough to wrap him in something ethereal--the alien fold and flow of hair.
A basket of citrus--lemons and oranges, swollen, bursting with possibility, the idea of juice--the blood-tinted pulp and the fragments of seeded fruit floating and swirling in the glass. The sharp hint of scent, pins of the familiar, faint and brushing as if brimming from the pores of their thick and rubbery skin.
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