Fino sherry and a slow ember

Tonight, sipping a slightly chilled fino while an old Dublin reel tangos with a bulería on the radio. Onions sweating in good olive oil; cooking by smell, letting salt and memory decide.

A stray cat threaded between my legs approvingly while I stirred, and a memory arrived — a man who tasted the stew before he leaned in to kiss the back of my neck. My belly shivered; patience still wins the best rewards, and the apron on the chair waits for someone with patient hands.