Cat Fight

She is a fuzzy peach pulsing in the glow of the fluorescent dairy case.  Beneath her skin, there is a tang.  A perfect ripeness.

So I bite her. 

I lunge at her with an open mouth, and bite into her shoulder.  Surprising.  I taste blood instead of juice.  

She slaps my ear and it rings like a silver bell.  So I grab her lovely throat and throw her back against the butter display.  Margarine slides out of spilled crocks onto the hard linoleum.  And we wrestle like puppies there in the butter and the blood.

She is slippery but I am very patient.  When she relaxes for a moment to catch her breath, I use my momentum to slide onto her chest and pin her. She struggles beneath me, but it is too late:    I am already working the ancient origami milk magic that will enchant her and bind her to me for the rest of her days.  

Separating carefully the two sides of the sealed opening of the carton, I pop out the cardboard middle into a perfect point.  I hold it over her for so long, threatening her with it, teasing her with it as her skin wonders when it will land.  Finally, I let a single drop fall like a sizzling spatter of Crisco from the carton onto the vague protrusion of a nipple under her blouse.  Her back arches to meet it.  She giggles at me. 

Taking the carton from me, she yanks my face close to hers, and slowly pours the milk over my head.  It rolls through my hair like a bridal veil.  I love her face then, dripping white with the life force food that has nourished a thousand generations of tottering Hindu calves.  

Her warm lips breathe into my ear….”Koneeeee..cheeeeeee…waaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

And that Japanese assassin bitch slips out from underneath me, smacks me in the side of the head with a whipped cream canister, and I am out like a light at midnight