"Your turn or mine?"

"I think you went last time, I'll go."

He slips from the bed and pads into the kitchen. The blinds are up but he doesn't move to shut them: it's late and dark, if the neighbors are that anxious to see, let them.

The freezer opens with a small 'whoosh.' Billows of cold air flow to the floor, he reaches and grabs two popsicles from the box on the door, removes the crinkly paper from both, returns to the bedroom.

"Red or Purple?"

"Red."

He hands her the red popsicle and climbs under the covers, using his other hand to keep his purple popsicle from the thick covers. The two entwine
their legs. Under the covers it's warm and damp and soft and smells of the tang of sex. The popsicles are a strong contrast, frozen and sweet, soothingly cool for two bodies heated with passion for each other.

He wonders: how habit becomes ritual becomes sacrament, how one person ever manages to find another, how one moment can stretch to a century, how
long this love would last, when she reaches her free hand behind his head, pulls his lips to hers, tongues bringing together purple and red in sweet stickiness, and he stops wondering.