Rasasvada: The taste of bliss in the absence of all thoughts
If you were to ask Clint what the taste of happiness was a few years ago, he'd tell you that it was the breathing in the icy cold of the winter wind as one stood on top of a skyscraper in Paris. He'd tell you that it was fine wine and chocolates and good cuts of steak, would tell you that it was the taste of the sweetest fruits from the farthest places.
If you were to ask Clint what the taste of happiness was, today, he'd tell you that it was mint toothpaste and the taste of Natasha kissing him awake. He would tell you that it tasted like burnt toast (Natasha, lovely lady that she was, was not particularly skilled in operating kitchen machinery, and burnt toast more often than not), that it tasted like orange juice from concentrate, and instant coffee.
He would tell you that it was like cream, melting in your mouth, the taste of Natasha's skin heavy against his tongue as he pressed kisses to the knobs of her spine, trailing each vertebra with care as she mumbled something in Russian in her sleep.
And he hasn't yet taken her to Paris, hasn't yet shown her his first love, but there are tickets burning holes in his coat pocket, and he thinks that tomorrow might be a good time to present them. But first, a kiss, another, another, and one more, just for good measure.