You actually stroke your mustache when you think like a caricature of a thinking man. It’s a scrape of luck, when I get to look at you while you aren’t looking at me, and now that you’re distracted by your computer and the essay about your dad, I am wondering how your face could remain so organized, given the unpredictably assertive size of your nose. And then I started noticing other things too, like how your eyebrows are also over-measured and how they outspan your cheeks and how your mouth pouts insolently past the ridge of your chin and how your hand next to your face, impossibly, dwarfs it all. When God made you he must have been in a toddler kind of mood, mashing up all your Mr Potato Head parts into a single cumulative beast. The falcon wildness of your mustache, the soft domesticity of your eyes, like crystals mined from the fragrant Olympic soil and then somehow tamed round into your pleasantly receiving skull. Then there are smaller, more affectionate things about you too, like dimples and knuckle hairs, and how you are very slow at typing because your life has taken you out into the sun which is your birthright as a summer baby, but it does kind of make you look like a sensitive brute (really rich after all that spit you talked about Micheal B. Jordan). If we were all alone in the city of Lake Forest Park which was formerly a part of Seattle, I would lead you into the city hall building inexplicably in the parking lot of this outdoor strip mall and I would unwrap you like a purse caramel and take you sticky between my teeth, licking you gently off the crinkled foil, leaving nothing behind. And then I would mold you pliant into pieces small enough to fit atop my tongue with my mouth fully closed. Soft, very sticky, and slick from my spit mixing up all that sugar. It’s almost too sweet for me – the new syrup forming in my hot mouth, thinner than batter but thicker than sweat. And turning and turning and melting you into other Newtonian phases of matter. Maybe I could spin you fast enough to turn to plasma and my mouth would light up like the sun, burning, as star light, from some twisting core inside. We would evaporate into a fine dust and disperse gently into the bargain books section where we would settle. But I’m not sure I’ll make it that far because I always hit a point where I’m impatient of tasting and I just finally want to bite. And then I probably would.