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{human services} kelsey bowe The ten tongues waiting in line lightly caress one another, simple and wonton, summoning nothing of love or taste, just bare fluids, mingling to pass the time. Quite frankly, I cannot stop staring. The pink muscles move amongst themselves gently, seemingly unawares of the rubbernecks trying to go about their days, or the employees trying process the many requests of the line. One girl never tried to cover her wonder. I watched her eyes follow the undulations as the mob of taste buds tickled their neighbors. You could see heart shaped question marks throb in her shirt, as the shadow of a specific tongue flicked the roof of her mind. I pried my eyes away long enough to look down at my hands, heavy with rings. I tasted one, then the next, and the next, pretending the curious turquoise was perhaps a Mayan tongue. The line still isn’t moving, and my hands can no longer hold themselves up. The rings have become temples, crushing me, and the girl, and all ten tongues. Whatever it is that we are waiting for together may never come. |
