It’s date night.
We’re at the pizza parlor, you and me.
A table for two. With a candle in a wine bottle.
A violin player going from table to table.
Napkins and menus, a classy place.
You ask me what I want on my pizza.
What do I want on my pizza?
I want my lips on it.
I want my teeth, gums, and lips on it.
I want my tongue on it.
I want my saliva and gastric juices on it.
I want it all.
The waiter blinks, says he’ll be back, and puts down a basket of breadsticks.