The first boy I ever loved and I are still in touch. He lives in the UK, we catch up when we are anywhere in proximity, which of course isn’t often.
A recent situation reminded me of a sweet moment with him, of which there are many. Sweet moments, I mean.
He had invited some of his friends over for dinner. He was cooking. I was hovering in the kitchen with him, sipping a cold glass of white wine, avoiding having to socialise.
He was madly busy; chopping, mixing, checking things on the stove, in the oven. I always enjoyed watching him create food. It was wonderfully sexy.
He had me taste something. I’ve forgotten what it was. Delicious. He was a wonderful cook.
“Mmm… yum! They will love it…”, I said.
He paused in the maelstrom of activity and looked at me.
“I don’t care what they think,” he said. “I’m making this for you.”
There might have been kissing after that.