Tofu

“So this will be a short interview, and just try to answer as succinctly as possible. Ok?” Looking down, she scribble my name on a piece of paper, lines underneath prepare to be written on.
“Ok.”
“What do you think of when I say ‘Yellow’?”
“Happiness.”
“How about ‘Sleep’?”
“Full moons.”
“Full moons? That’s interesting, and honestly baffling. Okay, alright. ‘Eyes’?” she asked, busily writing and writing and writing.
“Sea, as in the ocean kind of sea.” I said, clearing my throat to not sound like a croaking frog. “A calm sea, unless the eyes is tearing up, then that’s a stormy one.”
“‘Lips’?”
“Tofu.”
Her pen came to a pause, pecking at the paper as she tapped on it. “Why?”
I shrugged it off, hoping she would let it go.
Her gaze was hot and almost as if she was digging into my brain with her imaginary drills, trying to understand.
All I could think of was not to think of the tofu lips yours tasted like.

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