The chef holds the knife in the air for a brief second,
Then brings it down, slicing through the food.
We feel the heat from the grill splash our face,
a mix of grease sizzles from the flames.
This wasn’t a bad place to get out of the house.
I’m glad that we chose to come here.
Not being funny when I say this,
but there’s something about the way you eat.
Hunger is hunger, but you’re pretty
the way you hold your fork to your mouth,
the way your cheeks move up and down.
If the conspiracy theorists are right
and the world ends in the next few minutes,
you’ll have savored the last taste of my air,
the last taste of this place,
the last taste of this neighborhood.
If I were to tell you how I feel in this moment,
you’d swear I was trying to talk about you.
But it’s more than that.
I love the way your eyes are satisfied with what’s in front of you
and how soft they become.
The chef chops and sizzles the rice, onions, shrimp, and steak.
The oil and sauces bubble up on the grill,
mixing into the smoke, the grill hissing,
watching us feed ourselves one bite at a time.
Public decency is a thing,
though a kiss is the only thing I must settle for.
I want to rise from you like the steam rises from the grill,
the salt of your skin melting on my tongue
as soon as it touches.
It’s comforting watching you eat,
the way the sauce that marinated the shrimp
smears against your lips,
the way you lick it off
like nothing’s happened.
The chef throws more food on the grill
and clangs his spatula.
We’re far from full,
and I’m glad that of all places,
we decided to come here.
The air is filled with savory smells,
and still, I smell your perfume.
I catch you staring at me,
but it’s not just any stare
I love it, the way you look at me.
Whatever piece of you still hungers
bites off pieces of me every time you blink.
To think of your stomach as my final resting place,
your lips drenched in soy sauce.
If you could devour me whole, I bet that you would.
After all, our feelings,
this way we feel about each other,
are as raw as the meat and veggies
the hibachi chef throws on the grill,
and the way you smile,
and the way you wiggle and dance in your seat.
I want to be one of the things that satisfies you like that
the way you smile, the way you look at me,
making me feel just that.
Not just exposed,
but taming your hunger in complete satisfaction.
My heart beats and clangs
like the spatula in front of us.
There’s no sense in hiding what we feel,
soon the hunger will become too much.
The smoke from the grill intensifies this feeling tenfold.
Regardless of the lights, the other couples,
the rice or the steak,
you're not food.
No matter how bad I want to wrap my lips around you.
When the check comes, there’s no point in looking at it with question.
We’re both satisfied
