Back at mine, the first thing I did was put Lust and Chili on the table like centerpiece goblins. The second thing I did was shimmy out of my work skirt in a way that absolutely deserved a soundtrack. He leaned in the doorway, jaw going slack, then remembered he had a mouth.
“You’re unfair,” he said.
“I’m celebratory,” I said, stepping into his space. “We won.” We deserve a parade.
“Confetti gets in places,” he said, his voice doing that low autumn thing. “We’ll improvise.”
We made the kind of dinner that barely counts as dinner...toast, olives, a tomato that swore it was ripe, noodles because who are we kidding. We ate leaning hips against counters. We stole bites and got dramatic about it. We turned on a playlist that knew what it was doing. He pulled me into a kitchen slow-dance, on
