Fino, flamenco, and slow-burn evenings

Finished the weekly column and poured a slightly chilled fino, letting a scratchy vinyl wander between flamenco and an old Irish reel. The kitchen smelled of garlic, orange peel, and good olive oil; the windows were open and the city's late light pooled on the tiles. Laughed from the belly at a moth that mistook the lamp for dinner.

Dating again feels like seasoning — slow, deliberate, with attention to texture. He must taste what I made before trying to taste me; callused palms and patient fingers get closest to my rhythm. If you can shuck a mussel or sand a tabletop, bring one of those hands over; the apron is optional, but it's very good at keeping secrets.