It tastes sweet. Not like any fruit she recognizes—cherries, strawberries—but like the color red. She bought it at the candy shop with the pink neon sign. She bought it from a man with Crisco coated hair. 

“Eat this, Sweetheart. You’ll feel like God.”

It’s not about that, she says. She doesn’t need to feel like God. 

She looks over her shoulder and hands him five dollars. She reminds herself that she is an adult. She has every right to be here. She stuffs the change in her purse. She has every right to want this.  

  Back home she locks herself in her room. A tag tied to the stick thanks her for supporting a family owned business and explains the candy making process. It begins with corn syrup, sugar, natural flavors—hydrogen, dark matter—cooked in a copper kettle, poured into a mold. A galaxy is hand selected from a vat, scooped up, and pressed into the middle. A machine carefully inserts a stick. Once it cools, they wrap it.

“For the curious!” says the wrapper. 

She crumples it and tosses it to the floor.  

With the candy undressed she can see the creamy ellipse encased inside. It glitters when she rolls the stick between her fingers, and she is struck by the thought that these flecks are not edible mica. They are stars. 

  Inside this galaxy there are tiny humans. 

(Or maybe not.)

Tiny plants, tiny animals. 

(Or maybe not.)

Tiny solar systems.

(Or maybe not.)

Tiny life.

(Or maybe…)  

She is about to check the tag, then decides against it. She reminds herself that she is not alone. Anonymous people all over the world do this. For a moment, she considers throwing it away. For a moment, it makes her stomach turn. But then the moment is gone. She pokes her tongue at its glossy surface, explores its smooth horizons, and that is when she realizes it tastes red.

It’s a slow process. Lick after lick. Muscles become butter. Minutes melt away. It is a long way to the center, and she has time to contemplate what it will be like when she arrives. Will it be warm against her tongue? Will it hurt? What flavor is a galaxy? Blue? Indigo? 

She reminds herself that this is not a betrayal.  

She is close now. The red sphere is half its size when his car rumbles into the driveway. She stops to listen. The engine cuts off. There is a pause between sounds. Then he is inside, throwing his things on the counter. He calls her name, and she tongues the galaxy into her cheek where it burns a sugary red imprint. She tries to respond but the words are muffled, the skin of her mouth raw, grainy. He calls out again, footsteps on the stairs. She thinks of the tiny life inside the galaxy. Small screaming people. And then she doesn’t. 

She crunches down. Pain splits her teeth. The taste is more red than before. Pow. Fruit punch. Sour crystal stars fall onto her tongue along with something thick. He jiggles the doorknob. She crunches fast, people and planets crushed between supernova molars. A shower of meteors beat cavities into her teeth. She swallows. The lock on the door clicks. If he catches her doing this, what will he say? She is not the girl he fell for. But it’s too late. She cannot stop it. 

She leans back. Eyes filled with stars. 

And for a moment, she feels like God.