You’ll call me a hopeless romantic, I think…

…when I sing and dance and cook for you. In our kitchen, one day, the half drunk bottle of sticky white wine open between us on the beat up table, and you’re out right laughing because I can’t carry a tune and I can’t dance at all well, but the music is sultry and fun and it’s enough that you love it, pounding through the kitchen. And even though you know you cook better than I do- because I’m rubbish at that, too- and what’s on the boil was in a bottle not ten minutes before, you’ll like it. You’ll wince at the rice, meant for risotto and nothing else, I know- and what can I possibly have against basmati? – but it somehow suits the mood. The mood, you think, of barely competent love, yeah, love, that scents the air better than the chicken and rice ever would. And you like that I put cinnamon in the meal, even if it’s a bit weird, even though you know I don’t like cinnamon at all, because that’s how my mum did it, and I want you to love it just like I loved it, all those years ago. And you laugh, because you say you’d love it anyway, you’d love it because I love it, and you’d love whatever it was I put on the table in the end, even though we both know you could have made it much better by then. And I smile because you smile, and though it isn’t perfect, it’s perfect for us. And when we abandon the scratched kitchen table, still scattered with cinnamon and coriander and garlic that hadn’t even made it to the pot, and we curl, naked, on the porch in the daybed, sticky wine in hand, on tongues, spilled between us, I will laugh at the taste of the cinnamon we share, and you will glow in the candle light, and we’ll wake the neighborhood, because can’t they see? Can’t they see we’re in love?

* * *

By Danielle K. Day

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