Fino on the terrace, evening slow

Tonight I sit on the terrace with a slightly chilled fino, a record of old flamenco whispering as garlic and orange zest lift from the pan. Earlier a tabby followed home — I fed her a spoonful of stew and promised to save a corner of the table for patience.

There is a hunger that waits until the last course; I want a man who tastes what I made before he tries to taste me. Kiss the back of my neck while I stir, knot the apron half‑playful, and leave the windows open so the city can eavesdrop on our laughter.