Hush
The kitchen was neither too big nor too small. It was rather longish. It breathed in quiet warmth. Steam curled from a pot and cumin crackled in oil. She reached for the salt; he was already holding it out. Their fingers brushed—brief, unspoken, familiar. Outside, a cuckoo was calling in desperate bursts of ecstasy. Winter lingered in the air, in stray gusts of cool wind. Children were playing in the park, their bright laughter rising and falling with the wind. Water dripped from the tap into the sink at regular intervals, forming a rhythm. They noticed it, yet let it be. Taste this, a little more, perfect. He stirred while she leaned against the wall, watching with a half-smile that he caught in the reflection of a steel lid. Chopping, stirring, and passing bowls. Now and then, sunlight glinted off the utensils as they moved from place to place. Now she nodded. Then she lifted one eyebrow, the way he did when something quietly amused him. A playful nudge of the elbow. Then, as h...
