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Burke

It occurs to Burke that the sensory experience most closely akin to kissing Patty is Pixie Stix: trying and trying to dislodge a chunk from one, and ending up with a mouthful of wet, sad paper straw. Except with Patty you don’t get the zing of sugar in the first place. Burke always wondered if they were supposed to be flavored differently. Maybe the purple ones were grape and the orange ones, well, eponymous, but what taste would one associate with neon green?

“Burke?” Patty pulls away, looking as confused as he feels. “I–is something wrong?”

“Kiwi!” he says, wrongly.

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