Summer is the heat that sticks to you. You pull the door open and arid heat swarms you before you can take your hand off the doorknob. Your sundress feels too heavy, too tight, clinging to sweat slick skin. You take a step outside, hunching in on yourself as the sun burns the hairs on your arms, sandals clacking against the concrete with reluctant steps towards the designated parking. He’s standing there, hiding under the shade of one of the awnings, and it’s so much harder to ignore the sweat at the nape of your neck, running trails down your collarbone before disappearing under your collar.
His bubblegum hair lays flat against his head, his usual curls deflating from the July fever and sticking to his ears and forehead. He hunches a bit, like the heat is pulling him down, down, all the way down, and he holds out whatever chivalrous goodwill he thought to buy for you despite this miserable heat. You take the dripping, pink popsicle from him, all the small clownfish swimming within it’s strawberry depths make frantic movements, and you almost feel sorry for them. Almost. His long fingers are dripping strawberry milk delight all over the concrete, outside on your walkway, and the sickly sweet mess is making its fast approach down his elbow. He groans softly and lifts his arm to try in vain to lick it clean. You want to make fun of the way he lifts his arm, tries to turn at just the right angle to catch the stray, pink drops, because he’s so messy, always candy coated, with his mouth smeared in rainbow sweetness. But your mouth dries up and you can’t help but stare instead. Your eyes watch his lips, his pink tongue running up along the side of his hand, and he rubs a milky pink smear over his mouth and chin. His tongue laps at whatever it can reach once, over his lips twice, before his blue eyes catch yours.
He must see the way your popsicle is dripping on the concrete, coating your hands with rushing pink rivers; and he must see that some of the fish that are swimming towards a melty corner, while others try to swim away from the inevitable. A fish falls to the walkway, flops around weakly, before melting into a puddle next to your white sandal. Your mouth must hang open because he laughs at you, holding out his hand to you. You can smell artificial strawberries and you can’t tell if it’s just from the popsicle or his nail polish.
“Did you want some?” He asks, laughing.
Your eyes flicker to his fingers, to those cute, pink nails with those tiny, cartoon cherries on the end of each rounded nail. You watch the way his fingers are still dripping, the way they stain the tips of his fingers a sticky pink, and you lick your lips.
Your eyes move back to him and you bring the popsicle to your mouth without breaking eye contact. You bite at a corner, taking a small fish with it and you start chewing. The ice is soft from the heat, the usual hard, frozen bite softens under your tongue with little resistance, but you feel the fish squirm around on your tongue before you press the frantic thing to your teeth. You bite all the way down. There is an audible crunch before something fills up your cheeks. You taste orange creamsicle before you swallow it all down. You lick your lips and watch as his eyes widen. When you watch his lips part, you shoot him a smile.
“You want some?” You chirp back at him, laughing at the roll of his eyes. He reaches for the popsicle again but you dodge his grasping fingers, laughing at his pouting, pitiful face. You take another bite, two more gasping fish moving against your teeth, and you bite down again. Harder this time. You relish the taste as you relish his flushed, pink cheeks.
