Fino sherry and a bolero's promise

A scratchy bolero filled the kitchen while chickpeas simmered and the light through the window turned the olive oil golden. Poured a slightly chilled fino and tasted for salt with a thumb — habit of feeding too many mouths. A street cat bumped my ankle and the belly laugh that came out felt like permission.

Thinking about men who can read a pot: patient hands, steady thumbs, someone who tastes the food before asking for anything else. Windows open, apron tied around the waist like a promise; the evening rewards patience and a slow, deliberate arrival.