PROMPT FICTION

This is Love, Too

Flash fiction

The sauce is from a jar, I realize as soon as I step into the apartment.

I hang up my jacket in our shared closet and smile as I walk into the kitchen. He stands at the stove, leaning over a shiny, bucket-shaped pot, and I’m tempted to tug the knot of the apron around his waist free.

His smile is uncertain as he glances over his shoulder. The sweater I wear is his favorite, worn and soft against his skin during late nights when he rests his head in my lap. I see the wariness in his eyes ease as I nod in return.

Just a hint of garlic, certainly not enough. The puréed mash of tomatoes will be bland and soft, their freshness boiled out just like their meaty aroma. My stomach gurgles, but only because I haven’t eaten all day in anticipation of this moment. The stink of peppery oregano, as foreign as an unknown language, sticks in my nostrils, and I wipe my nose with the side of my hand once his gaze returns to the pot.

I was raised on basil and onion, on chunky sauces made with vegetables from my grandparents’ garden. On thick, sundried pasta loaded with rich flavors, mouthfuls of food made with love rather than recipes, meant for chewing hard with appreciative noise.