Chincherinchee

She'd always hated sticky things, refused in kindergarten peanut paste, that's what they called it then, no jelly passed her lips, no sweets. The boy who asked her to the prom was black, he'd swing his hips as only blacks can do, his hands were soft and full of grace, they rested on her bum throughout the night, and when he dropped her at her parents' place they stood and kissed, him leaning on the bell. The intercom transmitted every sound, each breath. Dad's voice came down like thunder, threatening death, they parted limbs and lips and their sweet company, and she was happy for the sticky chincherinchee.