Carrots

We had carrots in the oven, but that smell never reached our mouths. Our eyes stayed on skin, not on knives. She had one foot on the chair, dress pulled to her hips. I went down first—licked into her warmth, slow and unhurried, listening to the quiet sighs that never shaped into words. Every time I paused, she tilted forward and took me with her mouth in one smooth slide, hair brushing my thigh. Juice dripped from her chin and mine. The kitchen held us tight. One wrong step might land a plate, but we chose this pace instead. We found the carrot never rose to these new angles, these fleeting, living tastes that kept returning.