bitterdiva

The joy that was cooking

The sweat poured down her forehead into her eyes blinding her by the immense sting of her own bodily fluids. She ran the back of her hand against her face and flicked the collection of liquid onto the floor. Exhaustion had taken control of her senses and she began to waver on her feet. Her mind was elsewhere thinking of the man she loved, thinking of the man with whom she loves.

The pan began to boil and the effervescence of the meal started to expand throughout all the rooms of the apartment. A mélange of spices conjured up old feelings of meals gone by that she had made for him. Her heart sank a little deeper and further inside her trying to burrow into a dark crevice where time hides all memories.

He always enjoyed the palatable dishes she made, experimenting with some new recipe in which she added in a bit of herself to each one. Her feelings were always that following the directions to the tea hindered the creative process that is primarily cooking. Without experimentation one never realizes how two completely opposite tastes bring forth the perfect combination that ultimately is the yin and yang of cooking.

She always raced to start before he arrived back from work. It was the one time she enjoyed excessive heat near her body when cooking. He walked in through the front door, dropped his keys by the small table and traveled into the kitchen almost if drawn by the mystical aroma. Her body moist with perspiration, she kept wiping herself down with a cool washcloth she placed in an ice bath by the stove. His hand lightly grazed her arm as it traveled down towards her hand intertwining his fingers with hers and they began to stir the contents of the pan as one. His chin rested on hers and his right hand traveled down the side of her body and rested gently upon her waist. He drew himself closer to her body and would smell the spice amid her hair combining itself with rose and lavender.

11:29 PM

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