Late sherry and a slow ember

The radio hums an old bolero; a slightly chilled fino catches the light in my tulip glass. Garlic sizzles and orange rind perfumes the pan, and one of the street cats we feed on Wednesdays presses its whiskers to the door — a small, honest audience for tonight's rehearsal.

The house feels wide with two students away, and freedom tastes like patience and a well-made meal. I like a man who tastes the stew before he tastes me, someone with callused hands and slow eyes; afterward the apron can be a playful promise, and my laugh rises, low and warm.