She cooks. Always cooking. Itchy fingers, she says.
This morning – Christmas Eve Eve – I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.
I padded naked – foolish, foolish child! – to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back peeking deliciously at me from behind the creaking folds of oilcoth. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.
“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.
“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back, easing my fingers up through the cords.
She set the spoon down and rested her hip against the counter top.
“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”
“The Co Op opens at ten.” My hand curved round onto her stomach. Her tender, beautiful stomach. The faintest sigh escaped her lips as I moved closer, the convex of my body fitting neatly into the concave of hers.
“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.”