Jalapeño Kiss

In the rec-deck, as “Jalapeño Kiss” drifted through the speakers with its smooth, slippery C#⁺ → G##⁺ → B⁺ glide, Sulu and Chekov continued their latest metaphysical skirmish—this time delivered with the faint sting of peppered banter. “Pavel, Cleopatra’s nose would have sizzled history just like this cadence,” Sulu said, tapping the I⁺ chord. “A single tilt, and the timeline gets that little jalapeño zing—warm, sharp, unforgettable.” Chekov countered that Spock’s ears, especially the D#⁺ → E#⁺ → F##⁺ swell, provided the afterburn, the lingering heat at the back of the palate that kept civilizations alert. Neither had much memory left of which one was supposed to be Chinese or Russian; identity blurred somewhere around the last B¹→F##¹ turn. But they still reveled in the spice of opposition, trading barbed comments like tiny bursts of flavour—never hostile, just enough piquancy to remind them they were still human, still capable of a kiss that tingles without burning.