He’d stand at the cooker, simmering tomatoes with fresh herbs, reducing them to a rich sauce, slick and slippery with a sheen of olive oil.
He’d be wearing his oldest, most comfortable jeans, a pair that sat snugly on his slim hips,
bare feet tapping as he sang softly to himself in his delicious voice and stirred.
When he’d assembled the pizza, topping it with artichokes and fennel shavings,
he’d put it in the oven and come and find me, take me by the hand and lead me into the kitchen.
He’d have set the table, a dish of gardenias in the center, tea lights flickering through colored glass.
He’d slowly ease the cork from a bottle of Barolo with a long, satisfying pop and place it on the table, then pull out my chair for me.
Before I could sit, he’d take me in his arms and kiss me, his hands around my waist, pulling me so close
that I could feel the pulse of blood in him, smell the sweet spiciness of his skin and the warm sugar of his breath.
I’d finished eating my poor-quality pizza and was jumping up and down on the box,
trying to crush it small enough to fit into the bin, when I remembered the brandy.
Mummy always said that brandy is good for shocks and I’d bought some, several years ago, just in case.
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