Cradled in the palms of a young man was a nest of interwoven brown twigs, the bowl filled to the brim with tiny eggs the color of spring. Buttery yellow, pastel pink, hazy purple, soft white. All speckled with little red dots, minuscule dribbles of blood. The clack as they jostled against each other promised thick, hard shells, filled with gooey, spicy delight. My stomach twisted at the memory of overindulgence.
We stood together in a faded barn loft, where the boy had just pulled the nest down from among the rafters. Straw so old it had gone to white littered the wood floor and fine dust wandered away through the open loft doors. The eggs almost glowed with color by comparison with our drab surroundings.
As if in offering, the boy held the nest out to me. “Take these.”
Though desire arced through me, I raised my hands as if to ward him off. “Why do you want me to have them?”
“They’re my secrets,” he said. “I need you to hold onto them. Don’t you want to know?”
My mouth watered with the heady scent of sugar wafting up from the eggs. I swallowed. “If I take these,” I warned, “I will devour them.”
As his eyes widened, he hugged the bundle of eggs a little closer to his chest. “Why would you do that?”
I slipped my hands into my pockets, resisting temptation. “Don’t be so willing to give your secrets out,” I growled. “No one can protect them like you.”
The boy’s head bowed. “I’d still risk it,” he whispered. “To be known.”
“You know yourself,” I replied. Though he flinched, I pressed on. “Secrets are dangerous and therefore delicious. Be careful who you feed.”
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