Banana Berry Smoothie

Your eyes light up seized by a moment inconceivable, unknowable to me. Your body says yes and I can tell eagerness ekes out of your pores, anticipation infects the kitchen that found you within it, electricity shoots out of your fingertips. You're some sort of romantic Frankenstein, some sort of God. No, you're more than a god. You must be a long-forgotten Goddess. People used to throw wreaths to you, drink wine to you, make love to the Earth because of you. You brought back the essence of something we've forgotten. You must be that Earth Mother, Rain Child, Forest Spirit, Inventor of Music, Igniter of Passions, the being that placed love in our fragile minds like it didn't matter if we comprehended it, only that we knew how it was to feel something we could never fully express. I find myself around you and your energy is corrupting me, leading me to some place I know I want to be, someplace my body says I will never regret, some place you will elevate my mind, tantalize my senses, eclipse the ebb and flow of my radioactive soul, my pulsating existence. You say three words: Banana. Berry. Smoothie. I nod my head yes. Oh yes. Please yes. You tell me. Frozen strawberries. Frosted raspberries, blackberries, blue berries. Condensation dripping from the deep blues, royal purples, soul reds. I keep nodding my head. You continue: A fresh Banana. I nod my head more and you speed up. Natural honey made from wildflowers. I envision a field. I will be consuming the nectar of untold amounts of flowers - bright and dull, known and forgotten, blooming, born, and dying - collected by fuzzy bees covered in golden powder, bees that bring life and collect the work of sunshine. But you're not done. I have to grab the counter, nails digging into plastic covered wood, fingers slipping. The words slip out. I say, "What else". I think Orange Juice. You say, no, it's too much. You say, too tart. I think of course. Banana Berry Smoothies are like harmonies in an orchestra. If you overpower one note, one section, one subtle trill, the song is ruined, the moment is unreachable. I know I'm about to play sweet music and you're the one who is going to lead me. You stumble to the ghost-white refrigerator and hang on to its dappled surface with its strange rough smooth plastic feel. Reaching up, you throw open the freezer and your hands move so quickly I'm unsure when the plastic bags of mixed berries hit the counter and the sound of a shut door reaches my ears. The kitchen is like industrial war-time economy. Your hands place the separate ingredients into the blender like your left and right side are Rosie the Riveter and Lucy Larcom. Your religion is Henry Ford and you believe in the economies of production. Meanwhile, I am struck back in awe, leaning against the counter, the hands that grasped the counter now holding my face while my body leans over the ledge. I am witnessing art in motion, the making of a pleasure potion, the exploration of a new notion. The ingredients are in the blender, you hold containers of honey and cool plain yogurt in front of my nose and I inhale such sweet excitement. Pressing down the blender's button, the blades pulsate, chop, grind, smush, blend, soften. Blending. Mixing. Chopping. I cannot handle this din of creation. I move away from you and try to force my hands to deny my ears all that they were made for, yearn for, need. The kitchen is beset by a helicopter, a pandemonium of war, the cries of a birth. You are once more a Goddess. Some divine energy must be transferring from your fingertips to the creation within. I know it from the pit of my being. Everything is coming together as one, the separate parts slide past each other. If flavors could make love I think this is what it would look like. It's like when lovers first touch hands, when you find yourself in front of a mirror and know that you are so much more, when veins run with lightening and sound like thunder, when you feel that slight shock when someone rushes by you and your sides, for a moment, surprisingly, sensuously touch. The yogurt is embracing everything. Soft, clean yogurt. Light, cool yogurt. I know that the berries are everywhere, the banana is everywhere, the honey is everywhere. Before I even know it, you pour with such flourish and with such speed that, now unready for it, I am faced looking down at the top of the drink. The glass is sweating, condensation forming droplets of tears and as my hand wraps around the glass I can feel the cool moisture gather at the outlines of my fingers. I hardly know if I am ready for this. I continue to look down and discover even the smoothie itself is sweating such cool moisture. The dark pink, almost red, rich, alive color is dappled with luxurious berry seeds that I know will roll down the back of my throat like I am being massaged from within, the smooth, cool seeds gently stroking the most sensitive part of me, coaxing me on to a point where I must stop because I am overwhelmed. I gulp one last breath of air and as the glass hits my lips I close my eyes to feel everything, every moment, every feeling. I feel the cool, gently moving creation hit my lips and as I open my mouth an aftershock of pleasure radiates from my body. The smoothie is my epicenter of pleasure, of anticipation, of mind altering movements. It's as if the different flavors are affecting me at the same time and yet not. I feel each distinct experience and yet they're all one moment, one taste, one experience. My body shivers and I let out a moan. My eyes roll. I shiver. My nerves are on fire. I look down. I took one sip. I look to you and I nod, eyebrows raised and then lowered in an intense frown of appreciation. You quickly nod to me, placing another spoonful into your mouth. I know we have to tell others these three simple words. Banana. Berry. Smoothie.