Hot Pepper Boy

I happened upon a young man in South Park.

I suspect the girls his age would say he was a beautiful boy, hoping to run their hands through his dark, thick, wavy hair, wanting to touch the corners of his sweet mouth with their fingers.

He was bent over purple-leaved plants, his young, shirtless back to the sun, blue jeans low on his slender hips, harvesting the cherry-sized, the cherry red, fruit of what I saw as ornamental pepper plants.

I hear they’re really hot, I said.

Without a word, he look over at me, and then, with the slightest of smiles, he reached into his pouch, not far from a full gallon of the shiny, round, reddest of red peppers.

The boy held one out to me, speaking only with his eyes.

I heard that they’re really hot, really, repeating only what little I knew.

He smiled at me. Or perhaps he looked at me only with the amusement he felt, and he turned and bent back to his task.

Good luck with those peppers, I said, as I turned and walked on.