Tonight: fino sherry and slow embers

A bolero hummed from the tiny radio while a glass of fino sat lightly chilled beside the stove. Peeled an orange for the cats' supper and the apartment filled with citrus and warm garlic — a Sevilla evening doing what it does best. The kids pinged about essays; the ritual of feeding the strays stitched the day into something softer.

Thinking of men with honest hands — fishermen, carpenters, cooks who know patience by touch. Prefer someone who tastes the stew before tasting the woman, who kisses the nape of my neck while I stir and lets an apron be the first, playful restraint. Laughed from the belly at the thought; the ember inside remembers how to slow-cook desire.