Last night was special. Crystal and china glowed and Cole Porter kept time. There were snowy linens and full place settings of cutlery. There was garnish.
He cooked me dinner, fed me morsels from fingers redolent of southern France and the sea. He moved crimson and unencumbered through the fragrant steam, hands gentle on tender greenery. The hot oil spoke and he listened. I was the knife he held, the bubbling pot he stirred. I was unprepared for him to have everything we needed.
Honeyed lips were licked while Louis growled in the other room. The last of the wine was golden and sweet and I was drunk on candlelight. He told me that I am beautiful. I didn't tell him that my heart is his if he wants it.
Is it time? Only Louis knows.
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