A herd of long-legged human gazelles breezed through my kitchen last night. Still wet from the pool, they dragged out cutting boards, the good knives, yellow and orange sweet peppers, an English cucumber, Havarti cheese, whole wheat crackers and red pepper hummous. They clustered thickly around the island bar. The air fairly crackled with their energy. And when they vanished, suddenly, as wild things do, nothing was left but the seedy carcass of a pepper, a cheese wrapper and a pile of shuffled knives.
My first image of them was as a cloud of locusts; or maybe a school of pirahnas. Then my focus cleared; I saw the beauty and grace of young gazelles.
Can anything compare to the hunger of a teenager?
The lone boy hunkered over his guitar at the opposite end of the bar, swiveling on the garnet barstool, strumming quietly and dipping Ruffles potato chips into a pool of catsup on a paper plate.
The youngest girl stayed in the pool alone, swimming infinity symbols in the lavender light, holding court with a yellow floating rubber fish.
I tasted pungent garlic from the grilled Portabello mushrooms all night. But I would eat them again in a heartbeat.