Fino sherry, rain, and slow hunger

A scratch of an old Irish reel threaded itself through the plaza tonight while a guitar from the corner joined the steam rising off the pot. Poured a glass of fino, chilled the way my mother taught me — it sits between the plate and the conversation, patient and bright.

Fed the city's cats this afternoon and watched a carpenter walk by with flour on his palms; hands that know time and pressure make me curious. There's a saved fork on my plate for someone who will taste what I cooked before he tries to taste me — and who understands that evenings are architectural, not rushed.