Tommy and Becky lick each other delicately on a park bench as a pink, glowing tongue appears in the sky, not rising like the moon that has finally failed, not like the sun that is carving a stick and dreaming about the day it is allowed to swallow all it sees. The tongue comes from straight on and Tommy never stops licking Becky but she stops reciprocating and notes: “Some sort of fucked up space tongue thing, Tommy.”
He continues. She continues, “Stop it. Look. Look up. You see it, don’t you? What is it? A tongue, right?”
Tommy cocks his head. Nods, confirms, “Yeah, yeah, a tongue or something. Shit, you think it’s because of that tattoo I got? Its starting to itch all funny.”
Under Becky’s saliva, still red with the needle’s work, a knot of crossed lines and loopity-loos and swirly bits quiver as the living sigil anticipates its master’s tongue. Free it was from the darkened library, from the musty pages of that old book that had been left behind when they condemned the building. Finally, it had found flesh, flesh that it could open to accept the interstellar cunnilingus that was its greatest desire all of these long years since the master had penned it before jumping from the Earth on a black wind.
“You’re not gonna let it lick your belly are you?” Becky asked, disgust and jealousy fighting for control of her eyes.
Tommy could only stare as the tongue began to char a bit on atmospheric re-entry.