As the aroma of hot pocket filled the brick based apartment unit, his eyebrows began to relax with the same integrity that a snowflake has on its mellow descent to the ground. The young man took his cold, nervous, quivering hands and placed them upon the lead button of his blue flannel shirt. As he undid his shirt, his excitement was inversely affected. The more shirt that came off, the more excited he became. The young man looked at the beauty sitting there at a distance, licked his lips and stared her in her oregano like eyes. Her mouth now warm with anticipation, the young man picked her up with the desire of a stallion. He set her down gently on the kitchen table, kissed her. Slowly, calmly, the young man bit into her breading. She began to ooze warm marinara sauce and mini pepperonis. He whispered into her golden brown ear, “This is my swamp”. He finished her off with the ravenous intent of an ogre. The Hot Pocket was gone. He would never see her again. The young man wept.