She was craving cake – buttery soft yellow cake that melted in her mouth. She licked grains of sugar off her lips as she slept. But more than that, she craved a certain wild, untamed infamy, the kind that had her face on magazine covers and tore her to shreds swiftly and cleanly at night. She despised predictability – she couldn’t even watch evening television shows without writhing.
He was craving her – sweetly unkempt hair, feral catlike fingers, and a face he couldn’t get enough of. He felt her breathing against him, quick shallow rabbit breaths compared to his – melodic, slow like dripping honey. As he turned to her sleeping silhouette beside him, he realized he could never truly have her, like feeling your pockets until your fingers are raw for money that isn’t really there.