I like cherries, but I love popping them.

I met John during the spring in Cape Cod. I was on the beach outside my family’s estate, donned in an outfit a bit too summery for the light breeze in the air. He was walking his dog, a lively golden retriever, prancing along the seaside when he caught my eye. Suddenly, I was famished. His sweet, unleashed mutt, ever the matchmaker, noticed me before John did. He ran up to me, tongue out, flapping in the wind as he charged towards me. His owner ran after him. 

“Sorry, sorry!” He wrangled his dog by the collar, strongly, yet carefully. 

“It’s okay,” I smiled bashfully, gracefully. “What’s his name?” 

“Her name is Winnie.” He corrected me politely. 

“Hi, Winnie.” I reached down to stroke her fur carefully. It was damp and coarse, but I looked up at him, batting my eyes and grinning nonetheless. As I pet, a silence fell between us. I patiently let him scramble for something to say. I heard the cogs in his mind turning as he looked me up and down. 

“Isn’t it a bit too cold to be wearing that?” He asked. My thin dress parachuted up with the breeze. The faux worriment on his face was tantalizing. 

“Isn’t life a bit too short not to?” I responded. He smiled, ear to ear. 

It’s moments like this I live for. The gush of adrenaline that explodes within your body when you meet someone new, someone fresh and ripe, for the first time. It’s nicotine for the soul. 

I’ve never cared much for dogs, if I’m honest, but I liked this one. He was riper than cherries in spring. 

I met Christopher at a diner. It was in the midst of the hottest summer in years, and I was in dire need of a cold milkshake to quench the heat coursing over my skin. He was my waiter, and he was sweeter than pie, sugary enough to give me a cavity. Christopher approached my booth, and my intentions solidified. When he smiled, it was electric, crooked teeth and all. 

“What can I get for ya’?” He was cheery, brighter than the sun shining through the restaurant’s windows. I smiled back. 

“Vanilla milkshake with a maraschino cherry, please.” I folded up the menu and handed it his way. 

“Actually, make that two cherries,” I said, “I’m in the mood for something sweet.” 

My tone toed the line between sultry and syrupy, flagrant yet oblique. His face turned a delicious hue of pink as he bobbed his head in response. 

That feeling washed over me again, that thrilling gush that leaves me with a devious cupidity for a companion, one that’s naive of our corrupt reciprocity. I looked at him and knew that soon, I’d never want to see him again. I play modest, pretend I’m lily-white, and then I go in for the kill. It’s a beautiful routine, one that I’ve come to enjoy more than the men themselves. 

After his shift, I taught him how to tie a cherry stem with his tongue. He told me he’d never tasted anything as saccharine. 

I met Theodore before the rest. It was snowing, and cherries were not yet in season. I was younger than I am now, and somehow or another wiser. This was before I knew the ins and outs of men, before I’d ever been adored, before I’d even been kissed. Theodore was my first everything. My first love, my first heartbreak, my first time feeling that pop, that delicious, tragic gush that’s led me down a road of greed. I savored him, wholly, carefully, tenderly; not with lust, but with love oozing through my veins. It spilled out of me until there was nothing left but an impulse for more. He taught me not to make love last. I’ve been chasing firsts ever since. 

It made me ravenous, wanton, brazen; it left me starving. 

I have a hunger I cannot satiate, a hunger that’s left countless cherry pits in the throes of my gut.