Jealousy

My Jealousy is when you’re in a restaurant, Indian, or maybe Mexican, and you taste your first bite of grilled something-you-can’t-pronounce. It’s a big bite, because the waiter swore it was mild, and it didn’t have a little pepper next to it on the menu. But as the food enters your mouth bits of redness spring from the fork onto your tongue and throat, clawing at them, and it burns so badly, that tears gather in the corners of your eyes. As the food was approaching your mouth you knew it would be spicy, you could smell it, feel it, but you didn’t expect it to hurt so much. It shocked your mouth. It didn’t hurt for everyone else, you didn’t understand why it stung so badly for you. The worst thing was how long it lasted. Unlike a joyful ripe peach or even depressed stale marshmallows, spicy food lingers, no matter how much water you drink. Even hours later, that dull painful taste still sits in your mouth.