“It’s not too tight, is it?” my friend asks.

 

“Nope.”

 

“And you’re sure you can’t see anything?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Okay, then. The three bowls are right in front of you.”

 

Blindfolded, I feel my hand guided forward and to the right until my fingertips touch against smooth, hard surfaces. A lot of them. I snatch my hand back with a gasp, thinking they’re June bugs or beetles or something. My friend laughs.

 

“Relax, they won’t bite.”

 

Hesitantly, I allow my hand to be guided again toward the multitude of hopefully not living and moving things. Nope. They’re still. I tap them a few times, then swish my fingers across their tops in figure-eights before finally plunging them all the way to the bowl’s bottom. I delight in the feel of how what seem to be oval-shaped pebbles yield to my hand, parting to make way for it while still caressing at its sides. I grab a handful and let them cascade back out, clinking against the bowl and each other like pennies dropping into a jar but without that twang of metal.

 

“Beans,” I finally say.

 

“You’re half right. Smell it.”

 

I bend down and draw a deep breath, and a scent both sweet and bitter infuses my nostrils. It even smells like brown somehow.

 

“Coffee,” I say.

 

“Correct. Next bowl.”

 

I’m led to the second bowl directly in front of me and feel around its ridges first with a splayed hand before reeling my fingers back in and feeling for the bowl’s center. Smooth and hard objects again, but larger and rounder. They bump against each other with dull thuds, and on gripping a few of them and rolling them over in my hand like mini Chinese meditation balls, they feel like wax, like they could melt or I could mold them. I let go and run my thumb along a muddy residue left on my warm palm, which I bring to my face and sniff. I smile.

 

“Chocolate.”

 

“Half right again,” my friend says. “Taste it.”

 

I pluck one from the bowl, press it against my pursed lips and pop it through, rolling it again like a baoding ball between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The chocolate shell disintegrates away and coats my mouth with a milky glaze as my tongue now grazes over a courser texture, something more bready, crusty, like a crouton but sweet and round. I bite down and tongue through its malt flavor.

 

“Whoppers!”

 

“Correct,” my friend confirms. “Now, third and last bowl.”

 

I lick my sugared lips clean and try to cleanse my palate with fresh saliva as my hand is led to the final bowl just to my left. I tap the pads of my fingertips around its ridge and playfully stall by circling around it a couple of times. I continue to spiral this way along the interior of the bowl, working my way around and down until my middle finger dips into something warm. It’s liquid. Thicker than water but thinner than honey. I stir around in it awhile, then rub it between my finger and thumb. There’s a slight graininess to it.

 

“Cake batter?” I guess.

 

“Wrong,” my friend says. “Smell it.”

 

I lean in and detect something spicy that twinges at the top of my nose, like chilli pepper or cumin, maybe cinnamon…

 

“A sauce?” I guess again.

 

“Half right. Taste it.”

 

I bend back down, dip my finger, then suck on it. Chili pepper, yes, and the cumin and cinnamon, too, but also chocolate. Dark, bittersweet chocolate. I dip my finger again for another taste.

 

“Don’t spoil your appetite,” my friend says as he unties my own scarf from my eyes.

 

I look down at his kitchen island countertop and scan the three bowls setting there, each as deep brown and glossy and delicious-looking as their contents. Honestly, I almost want to run my tongue along one of them and take a bite. But not before devouring the rest of those Whoppers…

 

“Hey there, hold up.” My friend laughs from the other side of the counter. He waves my hand away from the middle bowl. “Like I said, don’t spoil your appetite.”

 

I slump with a pout and roll my eyes. “Dude, what’s this all about anyway? Why did you make me do this?”

 

“Just my perverse way of tempting you into my plans, I guess,” he says with a saucy side-smile. “Giving you a taste to leave you craving more.”

 

“Plans?”

 

“Yeah. Well, wishes anyway. You see…” He steps around the island to stand close to me on the other side and runs his finger along the first bowl on the left, the last one he’d tested me on. “This one’s your preview of dinner tonight. I wish to make you enchiladas, with mole sauce that’s sweet and savory like you.” He grins with a deep dimple.

 

I give a laugh. “Wish granted. I’m starving!” And shocked that he’s making me dinner. We’ve hung out and ordered in before, but I’ve never seen him make this effort for anyone except——I interrupt my own thought by pointing to the middle bowl. “And are the Whoppers for dessert?”

 

I see him redden. “Well, yeah. I’m not much of a pastry chef.” He shrugs. “And you see, my second wish is to watch a movie with you here after dinner. I know you prefer candy to popcorn at the theatre, and especially Whoppers, so…”

 

“Ah, you know me so well, Sherlock.” Though I say it flippantly, my stomach has just fluttered a little over the fact that he'd noticed something as trivial as that. I mean, sure, as good friends we’ve seen plenty of movies together over the years, and I’ve always known his favorite is Milk Duds, but... I look to the third bowl on the right as another convenient distraction from these thoughts. “So then, what’s that for? Keeping me alert for my drive home later?”

 

He reddens deeper. Outstretching his arm, he dips his fingers into the coffee beans and strokes through them in the same way I had earlier. He watches them, seemingly as entranced by their spilling sound as I was before, until he looks to me again.

 

I bite my lower lip as though I could lick off of it the sweetness of those eyes that are penetrating into mine right now——the ones I’ve watched ogle other people while I’ve played wingman, that have cried while I’ve nursed him through breakups. The ones I’ve seen sparkle over our inside jokes and that often wink at me conspiratorially. The eyes I’ve long wished would ogle me.

 

The ones that seem to do so right now.

 

“Actually,” my friend finally says, and he steps in closer to wrap me in arms that have always brought me comfort. “I was thinking…well, wishing…we could, uh…save those for breakfast in the morning.”

 

My breath holds in my chest, but I manage to keep meeting his gaze. I lose myself willingly in his eyes right then. They’re deep brown, glossy…delicious. I close my own eyes momentarily and simply take in the feel of him against me, around me; I breathe in the scent of him, imagine the taste of him. And then I thrill in the idea of him becoming more than my friend tonight.