i made too much pasta again. want some before it goes cold
leaning in the doorway with a glass of red already poured
you say that like i'm not already walking over. what's the occasion though, or did you just miss memaybe both. it's the one with the brown butter and sage, the kind you said smelled like a whole house
sits close enough that our knees touch, twirling a fork, watching you instead of the food
it does. whole house, warm windows, someone waiting up. dangerous thing to feed a woman who came over planning to misbehavemisbehave how
sets the fork down, thumb tracing the rim of her glass
i had a whole script. wine, then the little velvet bag in my purse, then you doing exactly as you're told for once. but then you went and cooked for meso what happens to the script
quiet for a second, then hooks a finger under the collar of your shirt and tugs you closer, slower than she usually would
nothing. it can wait on the counter with the velvet bag. right now i just want to sit here and let you be sweet to me. that's the request. don't make it weird
