Satiated, I knew it right away just to look at you.
But anticipating this, there is always room, isn’t there?’
The garden waits now, beans, carrots, lettuce, herbs. Run barefoot through the mud to pluck them from the ground, toss then into the sauce with such wonder, such pleasure, such hope of sharing this, that, your fingers so fine and so precise, your hair tossed back in the wind, clumped to your forehead in the sticky heat, dripping from the shower onto my skin, my skin released from its modesty now, unhooked, unzipped, yours, a taste. As you wish. No, in all honesty, as I wish.
At its most simple, the Saint-Honoré is a cake of cream puffs and cream, but it is magical, that combination of memories, the tender, the delectable, the faintly sweet but familiar. You watched me stir, then pipe it from the pastry bag, a puff, the cream, beat firm but not too stiff, too dry. Just right. Teeth through to that glorious full softness, you remember, love, don’t you?
I am here, half unbuttoned, perfumed, half drunk, katydids chirping, tree swing on a hill, the night, the moon. My feet touch the ground every so often, love, take a bite, make a wish, honor this, soar.