Longing

Too early in the morning. I have no cream for my coffee. I guess it's a quick run to the market.

Cream in hand, I head for the produce section. Why must I live in a place that lacks interesting, exotic produce? for some strange reason, I head for the yams. I don't eat much of the 'yam.' What am I...

I take a yam and wonder what the difference is, really, between a yam and a sweet potato. Fondle, fondle...Whoa! Like a hot fleshy slap, I am filled with thoughts of a certain boy. Sweaty, salty, throat-heating thoughts. My logical side (is it the 'right brain' you psych-lovers call it?) thinks I'm nuts. Honestly Nikki, a curvy, rusty tuber reminds you of...him?!?!

Perhaps it's the weight of it in my hand. It certainly isn't the shape. But it's comfortable, it's stirring. The produce guy says something, I give some auto-response and he turns away. I bring the yam to my face and breathe deep through my nostrils. Under the bright glare of the market lights, with my eyes closed, I absorb his musk. I find myself to be a silly girl right now. No, he does not smell like a yam, but somehow his scent is here. It's strong. The heat rises, the skin on my face tightens.

Quit it. Get some coffee, you've gone bananas. You're caressing a yam! It's not even a cucumber! Or a zucchini!! Get home. Dork.

I bought the yam. It's sitting on the kitchen counter and if I look at it through squinted eyes, it looks like a dead rat. I sigh then turn my gaze to the snow outside, wondering how I should cook the damn yam.