Cooking

I love to watch you cook. It happens so rarely that we eat at home - my home, that I really don’t know what to do when you are making your magic in the kitchen. Do I stand there and watch you slice each piece into perfect cubes or circles? Do I take the uncomfortable choice of sitting on the sofa and waiting for you to finish? I don’t like the presumptuous air that forms just sitting there. I can’t help you in here - my talents are all intangible - dealing with the mind, the emotions, and haven’t developed into something I can place on my wall or in my hands.

So I just lean back against the sink and watch you - wondering why we haven’t done something like this in recent times. I can’t even remember the last time my pans were used. The last time you cooked, I imagine. I’ve gotten so used to ordering out or eating cold cereal or fruit.

I watch you slowly slide the blade along the inside of a tomato. Beefsteak tomatoes - I know their name, the produce section is my biggest weakness. You remove the inside flesh and I feel a smile pulling at one corner of my mouth. I must look like an idiot, smiling at the consideration. You know I hate the insides of a tomato and the seeds that seem so slimy.

You glance over your shoulder and catch me. I don’t know why I stopped smiling. Defense? I don’t bother to analyze it this time. That smile you have when you want to cover your hurt appears just before your head turns back down to watch your work. That smile, which you use to mask your hurt, has instead become its trademark.

I’m angry - at myself. I didn’t want you to feel or see just how far I go to protect myself from you. Yet, I see it in the slower movements you have, the slight difference in the way your shoulders roll forward. I stand there, helpless to recapture the lightheartedness of a few moments ago.

I know it’s the silence that bothers you most now. The burden of your hurt hangs in the pregnant air.

So I move closer to you and stand just behind you for a long moment before my hand slides over your waist. My fingers curl in slightly and tug. You resist the silent order to turn for a moment but only long enough for the rebellion to be noted. Your fingers drop the knife, but curl into fists. You pull them in across your chest, not crossing your arms, but keeping them from touching me.

I note the gesture. You aren’t looking at me. I hate that you have to hide, but I understand the reasons for it. I hide from you also in other ways. The smile being only example of many.

I pull you in closer and hug you to me despite your resistance. My head bows down. My cheek brushes against yours, sliding slowly back and forth. I can hear the rough sound of stubble as it rubs your skin into a pink hue. You are stiff in my arms.

My lips press a kiss against your neck, at that hollow just below your earlobe. I can feel the shiver that courses through your body, feel the goosebumps that rise. I lightly trace the skin there with my tongue.

‘Thank you.’

I whisper it against the gentle shell of your ear and feel the tightly held muscles of your back ease. A moment later your arms wrap around me. I can feel the smile you have as you bury your face into my neck. Your arms cling to me even after my own have lessened their grip.

There is a long shuddered breath as you breathe, I can feel it against my neck. Your fingers curl into my shirt, the muscles of my neck and back. Your body presses against me. My eyes are filled with the vibrant color of your work that lays ignored on the cutting board.

‘Love me, Daemon.’ You whisper against my skin, pressing kisses on my neck as if to punctuate the sentence.

‘I do, pet.’ I say it with a smile. It is easy to smile when no one is looking.

Your laughter is silent but vibrates your body. Your face rubs in that spot you so favor on my shoulder. I am still bent over you to keep it there - you are on your tip toes to keep it there also.

‘No, D. I mean fuck me.’

There is a resounding rumble that comes from my chest as an answer. My face buries itself in your hair. The contact seems to have shifted from soothing to provocative in a matter of seconds. My fingers dig into your ass as I pull you up against me. I can feel your legs wrap around me as you look down from your new height. Your fingers slide into my hair, pulling on strands that match your own black locks.

‘Oh yea….What about dinner?’ You ask as I walk us towards the stairs.

‘You can cook tomorrow.’

We never made it past the living room.

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