30 years ago, I bought them jellies, two each to be fair, red and green, chilled and conical. Same taste, but they preferred the red, a ruby that held the light before it slid down their throat, slippery sweet.
They stood poised over the bin, him with a foot on the pedal, his whole body curved towards the jelly, she falling back, her eyes wide in her full moon face. He went for the red first, peeling off the top, and tilting his neck back, all at once, a dance with light. I could almost hear it slide down his gullet.
She started with the emerald first, keeping the best for last. Her five year old fingers fumbled, and her red slid straight into the bin.
They were always like that, he rushing for the best first, she toddling behind, careful. He now pours his love on us first too, uncaring if there will be any left for later while she waits, guarding jealously her hoard of loving words, sometimes letting them go to waste.
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