Her favorite flavor is coffee.
She likes it deep and strong and rich, loving the sharp, bitter aftertaste that comes with it. She likes it in ice cream, in beverages, and yes, in her milkshakes. She dislikes sweetness in everything; sugar and cream are for children who have not yet developed sophistication in tastes.
She, of course, has a very sophisticated taste. She wears lipstick and heels and black skirts, in her spare time of course. Clothes meant to be lingered over or torn off, depending on the preference of her chosen bedmate. It, of course, doesn't matter who. She only sees one face in bed, only feels the hands of one person while she lies entangled in limbs and sweaty sheets. And afterwards, she always asks for one small cup of black espresso, a habit that is questioned and commented over by everyone who has the distinct pleasure of her nightly company. She tells them she drinks it to maintain stamina, with a smile and a high, flirtatious giggle.
But she drinks it for its bitterness.
Now she lays on her side in the sweet, innocent twin bed in the dorm her and her brother share. She loathes the juvenile paintings and mosaics littering the room, a room for babies and children. She is no longer a child. Somehow she feels that she is tainting the innocence of this room, and revels in the feeling. Like a whore in Neverland.
Her brother comes out of the tiny kitchen, holding a tray. She watches him as he sets it down, absorbing the play of muscles in his arms, admiring the thin waist and the figure so much like her own. Watching a few butterfly wisps of hair fall into his eyes. He asks her if he'd like a milkshake, but he has made it the wrong flavor once more. Vanilla. Miki's flavor is vanilla, sugary and plain and childish. She despises it, because it reminds her of him. She loves it for the same reason.
"You know I can't have something that sweet." she says.
He shrugs, the faintest movement beneath the pale cotton pajama shirt he wears, and drinks down his cup of innocence. A few hours after he has fallen asleep, lying sprawled on his back amidst a sea of lamb-patterned sheets, she rises from her own bed and goes to kneel by his side. His hair lies in a wild fall of flyaway blue. His lips are faintly parted, and she traces those with one finger. Then she bends over him, brushes her lips against his.
They taste of vanilla.