Fino and a slow evening's promise

Late afternoon in Triana, Van Morrison on the radio and the kitchen full of garlic and orange blossom. I poured a glass of fino—slightly chilled—and let the pot reduce by smell; two stray cats approved and sat like little town critics. My laugh came from the belly when one tried to lap the rim of the pan.

I want a man who tastes the food before the woman, someone with hands that know how to build, mend nets or steady a chopping board. I want the slow ember: a shared meal, candlelight, a slow undressing, and an apron pressed into playful service — taste my simmering secrets before asking for more.