Fino sherry and a slow ember

This evening the calle smelled of orange blossom and the man two doors down was playing "The Parting Glass" like he meant it. A pot of garbanzos was on the stove; my nose told me when it was ready, I tasted the broth, sipped slightly chilled fino, and my belly laughed.

Free at last, moving through dates like a slow recipe — patient, precise, with a little surprise at the end. I want a man with his own hands: a cook, a fisherman, a carpenter — someone who tastes what's on his plate before he reaches for me, and who will untie an apron with the same care he used to turn the heat down.