He moved in, pressing her against the cabinet. Her hands found the small of his back and the nape of his neck. They paused, savoring the electric anticipation, before tasting one another. There was a chill in her breath.
He moved in, connecting gently with her cold lips. He lingered in the ice of her breath. She melted into the warmth of his chest.
They stayed in the moment, wishing it would never end, wanting to bottle it, seal it, and drink from it forever.
Their lips parted, but they held close again, indulging in the feel of the others breath. She bite her bottom lip and moved in again for another, but her second sip was interrupted.
“Daddy, what’s for dinner?” their eight year old asked, oblivious to the passion of the moment she was destroying.
She laid her head on her lover’s shoulder. He lay his temple in her hair. “Maybe later,” they thought in unison, but they weren’t fools. Later was drum practice and soccer, dance and bed time, then exhaustion and decompression. Later was not this. This icy-hot tingle could not be called up at will. Like a sun set, it refused to be commanded. Like a captured snow flake, it was frail and fleeting. Like a surprise party, the whole point was not knowing the coming explosion of celebration on the other side of the front door.
The eight-year-old little girl pulled a chair from the table. The wooden legs against the tiled floor made a horrifying screech. “Broccoliiiiii?” The little girl said as if she’d found a dead rat on her plate. “Can you at least put cheese on it?” she begged.
“I’ll get right on,” he said sarcastically stepping away from the paradise of his lover.
She smiled at him as she watched him move to the fridge, dreaming of the moment that had passed. Catching his eye with her gaze, she sipped her cold soda once more and winked.