When I dream of a near and distant future, it’s the kitchen where I see us together. It’s not a room I think about much but I would when and if I am with you. It’s a room that relishes the magic of the tiny moments, crafted like a romance novel: the passing of salt shakers, talking of ingredients I do not care and know about but I like the way you talk about them which has me interested, arriving at the perfect playlist while waiting for the oven to beep. Hands on waists as we navigate around each other in this space, kisses on the forehead, your fingers on my mouth as you cross over and get me to taste our modified recipe. It’s in the way we place tiny portions on each other’s plates (I need to do this even if your plate is full) or hold a spoon out at the same time while taking the first bite of our dessert, and the way you’d finish my food because I never can eat everything on my plate. The kitchen is where I see us together, maybe because of the promise it holds of making it about we rather than you and me.
