“I’ve told you to stop referring to me as food”. 

He turns me over carefully, mindful of my aching hips. “You’re a snack, Sorahiko”. He teases. 

I know he’s playing with me, but why does it feel like he’s saying that I can only satisfy him for now?— that I’m not a meal. I’m a snack. 

A perishable meal. A fleeting conquest. 

The joke falls flat in my mind, but outwardly, I play along with him. “You sound like a cannibal, Miyamura”.

He ...