I REALLY feel like honey on toast.
Sweet and scraped thin? I tease, and put two slices of bread into the toaster.
You scowl; I snicker. I REALLY feel like making/eating honey on toast, you amend.
I laugh and find a plate.
Honey drizzled on hot toast pales and liquefies, syrupy-gleam in low light as I guide it over the toast with a knife. I hand you the one plate with the two slices and tell you I don't want any.
You slant me a look but bite obligingly into the first piece. I listen attentively to the crunch of the toast between your teeth and then, before you can take your second bite, I snag your hand and lean over to try it for myself.
You said you didn't want any, you accuse as I release your hand. I smile innocently and lick the crumbs from my lip.
I steal the second bite from your second slice, too.
I don't think you'd taste like honey on toast, I remark when you're halfway through that second slice, and I bring your free hand to my cheek. I mean, toast is all crunchy
but I g