Fino, garbanzos, and a slow evening

Forty-four, a pot of garbanzos simmering with smoked paprika and bay, and a slow fiddle tune drifting from the radio — Sevilla light leaning through the kitchen window. Poured a glass of fino, chilled just so, and watched the fishmonger cross the plaza with hands that smelled of salt and rope. The scent made the back of my neck warm in a way that made me smile.

Dating again feels like braising: low heat, patient hands. He should taste the stew before he tries to taste me; bring callused palms, a steady laugh, and no hurry. There’s room here for an apron to be tied, windows thrown open, and the kind of belly-laughter that rattles the pans — that’s the tempo worth keeping.