i will never forget our first kiss. she ran down the stairs afterwards and all i could think of was her coming back up the stairs. we fell in love. it was love full of drunken dreams and misunderstood desires. a love conjured on dance floors and porches.
the moment i knew i was in love with her was one afternoon, in my kitchen. she had a towel over her shoulder. she was dicing onions. her knife was a blur and the perfect cubes of onion piled next to the steel flash of her blade. i wanted to rip all of her clothes off. the rhythm of the wuesthof hitting the wooden cutting board after it dissected the translucent flesh awoke something in me that i had never known before. i walked to her side and smiled. she turned to me and kissed my forehead. she continue chopping as her lips touched me.
i always watched her chop onions. i conjure her meticulous perfection when i dice onions. i love onions. they are the beginning of most every meal i cook. and i am thankful that i have that memory of love to hold me when i chop onions.