you always were so nervous about cooking, you never would do it. You had such a food schedule. Every evening was regimented, the same thing every day, every week... there was no room for spontaneous experimentation. So when you figured out how to make something new, there was such a fanfare. I remember vividly that bean salad with corn and gherkins. One time I had come over while you were at work. Remember how I did that, I used to do that all the time, catch the train and the bus and walk to your house in the dark, just so that I could be there when you got home. I can still remember how my heart ached when we weren't together, even for a few hours. And you had made me a bean salad and left me little notes all around the house. And you came home from work, smelling of fish, in your work jeans and white polo shirt, and I ran to you in the doorway and wrapped myself around you and breathed you in. That smell, how warm you were after work, your hair stuck to your flushed face. We would stand in the doorway kissing for half an hour.
I cant remember how many times I told you I did not like corn. You still made it for me on my birthday.
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