​Chiquito

The lens of my Canon DSLR could barely capture the sheer, unpeeled majesty standing at the altar. As a twenty-two year old wedding photographer, I had shot dozens of ceremonies, but I had never seen a best man quite like Chiquito. He stood a proud six feet tall, a flawless specimen of Cavendish heritage with just a hint of green at his stem and a scattering of freckled brown spots that drove me wild.

During the vows, his drawn-on sharpie eyes met mine from across the chapel. A hungry shiver rippled down my spine. When he adjusted his tiny silk bowtie against his smooth, waxy skin, I accidentally tripped over a pew and set my camera to burst mode, capturing thirty consecutive shots of his glorious, curved posture.

At the reception, the air was thick with the scent of cheap champagne and ripening fruit. I was adjusting my tripod near the buffet when I felt a firm, spongy hand rest on my shoulder.

“You’ve been focusing on me all day, doll,” Chiquito whispered, his voice a smooth, creamy puree that melted right into my ears. “And I don’t mean just the camera lens.”

“Chiquito,” I gasped, dropping my lens cap. “We shouldn’t. You’re the groom’s best friend. And you’re… a monocotyledonous herbaceous flowering plant.”

“Labels are for grocery stores,” he murmured, leaning closer. I could smell his amylase cologne.

He grabbed my hand with his ripening appendage, which felt like a damp kitchen sponge, and dragged me into the venue’s dark coat closet. The intimacy was instant and suffocating. He pressed his towering, yellow frame against mine, trapping me between his curved body and a row of winter coats.

“You’re falling for a fruit,” he groaned, his voice heavy with potassium-rich drama.

“I don’t care,” was my breathless reply. “I could use more vitamins in my diet.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, Chiquito gestured toward his stem. The air in the closet grew heavy and humid. The best man began to produce his deepest, most fibrous secrets. The sound of his waxy skin brushing against the wool of the coats was a symphony of sensual, squeaky glee. He leaned in, his curved yellow frame casting a long shadow across the small space.

“Be careful,” he whispered. “A heart as soft as mine is prone to bruising.”

My now fragrant fingers reached out, tentatively touching his smooth, yellow exterior. It was slippery and slightly cool to the touch. A stray banana string became tangled around my wrist. It felt like a sign, a bond that could never be broken by anything as mundane as a blender or knife.

Chiquito leaned in for a moment of intense connection. There were no lips, only a soft, blunt tip pressing against a forehead, smelling strongly of the old banana flavoring, reminiscent of a runtz candy from a vending machine. It was a frantic, gooey collision of human longing and overripe produce. The starch from his skin left slippery residues all over the my hose, a sticky reminder of our shared moment.

Suddenly, the closet door flew open. Blinding light poured in, revealing the bride standing there with a plate of cake.

“Chiquito?!” she screamed. “The DJ is playing the Cha-Cha Slide! You’re supposed to lead the line!”

Chiquito quickly straightened his bowtie, his smeared marker face unreadable but his posture radiating regret. “This was a slippery affair, but I must split,” he whispered, before dashing out to the dance floor. I was left alone in the dark, surrounded by the intense, lingering scent of a high-fructose smoothie.