It’s sunday evening and I love cooking on Sunday evenings. It is also high summer. We just held
the First Harvest rituals a week ago and you still can smell the fresh herbs we picked. All the fruit
trees did well this year, and there are bowls filled with plums and nectarines and peaches. The entire
kitchen is a delight for the senses. Dinner is a Thai chicken dish with tons of ginger and garlic.
Where is that man, I wonder, singing a tune. The sun set just about half an hour ago. The
crickets are on their third symphony. I hear him walk up the stairs. My body begins releasing into
these sounds, so familiar to me now, my best friend coming home. My skin turns to goose bumps
although it is not cold. My heart skips a beat. I give the ginger one last stir as he enters.
I turn and find his eyes. All of me is open to him. He comes over to me and we hold each
other’s gaze for a second that seems to last minutes. As he kisses me, I drop into myself even
more, tasting him. I can barely keep still. But I want to move slowly, to be completely aware
of all these sensations.
I put the spatula down and wrap myself around him, smelling his body, drinking it in
like nectar. I can hear his heart beat beneath my ear. This vibration moves through my cheek
and into my own heart, into my belly, my vulva, my clit. There is no way we are going to make
it through dinner. I realize this now, but he acts before I do, turning off the stove behind me.
I love summer evenings. I love the sound of crickets, and the sight of huge moths
banging against the light next to the back door. Coolness, finally, after a day of baking
hot heat. I can smell dinner wafting out the screen door as I approach. I know she hears
me but she does not turn to watch me come out of the darkness to the door.
She is wearing her cooking apron. It gives me such a kick. It reminds me of something
someone’s grandmother might wear, you know: white, tied in the back. Only I don’t think anyone’s
grandma has an ass like hers. Her ass is round like an ass should be, firm, yet not overly
muscular. I see all of this coming into focus, the room widening until I walk through the door.
She is so cute, turning to me with a spatula in her hand and mischief in her eyes. I
walk over to give her a kiss—I can taste ginger and garlic on her lips. She puts the spatula
down and wraps her arms around me; leaning her head upon my chest, she sighs. Her hair smells
like shampoo and her day.
“Hello, my darling lover-girl.”
When she looks up to reply, I stop her words with my mouth. Our lips slowly find their
rhythm like well-acquainted dance partners. I reach over and turn off the stove.
