pop rocks

For Halloween, The Fella’s boss set out a big plastic cauldron of goodies for customers. That’s how, for the first time since I was 15, I ended up with a hissing, bubbling mouth full of Pop Rocks.
I poured them in a lttile too enthusiastically in my hasty quest to cheer up A., whose lactose allergy constrained him from trying them. I cannot recommend exceeding capacity in this manner.
I’d forgotten everything about Pop Rocks except the fizzle, and it turns out there’s a good reason for that: Pop Rocks have very few attributes beyond the fizzle. A., looking at the Halloween-themed packaging, asked “Are they — ew — pumpkin-flavored?”
They were not. They were nothing-flavored. Maybe sugar-flavored. They were sweet, and hard, and they hissed and jostled around in my mouth like an unhappy concert crowd.
I kept refreshing the layers of candy on my tongue to the amusement of The Fella and his colleagues, all of whom were too smart to join me. I found that I could alter the tenor of the hissing; with my mouth open, it sounded like a high electrical sizzle, but when I closed my mouth and closed in the sound, it became much deeper and more resonant, like an ominous hum rising from my sternum, my jawbone, my sinuses. Every so often a rogue rock would work its way around to my gumline and explode there, giving me an unwelcome frisson of dental fear.
It was weird.
I am participating in NaBloPoMo.

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