You tasted sugary sweet. Not the perfectly-ripe-strawberry-that’s-been-warmed-by-the-summer-sun type of sweetness, but sweet like an artificial sweetener that’s bound to give you cancer and leaves a weird aftertaste in your mouth.
I told you all about this one night on the stumble home from the bar. You looked bored while I explained my musings, then shrugged. You told me that everything gives you cancer and that aftertaste would just ensure I’d never forget you. Like I could ever do that anyway.