Fino sherry, late music, small rebellions

I have a chilled fino in one hand, Sinead O'Connor low on the radio and a flamenco guitarist scraping the shadows; the kitchen smells of garlic, orange blossom, and the pan's first caramel. Two university backpacks lean by the door — the children have made the house quieter than expected — and the slow ember in me wakes, preferring the architecture of a long evening.

If someone asks what I taste like, the answer arrives in spoonfuls and silence: taste the stew first, then the rest. Looking for a man with callused hands who knows patience at the stove, who'll tie a kitchen apron like a promise and kiss the back of my neck after that first bite. Laughter trembles in my belly tonight; patience tastes like sherry and warm bread, and that's an invitation.