He loved mucus,
he told her the first time
they met, loved how
it leapt up throats
like a space shuttle
carrying a cargo
of bacteria, loved
its wet ooze, its indecorous
color, its long tails.
He could spend hours,
whole days, staring
at mucus: under microscopes,
through the lids of petri dishes,
inside sterile jars where it
slid to the bottom accompanied
by bubbles of spit.
She wondered what
he thought when they kissed,
if he continued to think
about mucus, if her wet
lips reminded him of
what he loved. She
wondered how many
conversations they might have
over a lifetime about mucus,
if there could be that much
to say, surprising herself
by wanting to find out.