keeping up with jones

the thing about days like this is: i never see it coming.

it's been years since i've actually made the dish. i've eaten it plenty of times in quick dreams between hustles and gigs - but the actual taste has managed to live completely separate of me.

the problem with not feeling it on my tongue - or seeing it on my plate in years is that my mind hasn't quite held on to every ingredient. i only remember what she wore when she cooked it. how she'd turn around - placing her palms on her neck - asking me to remove her necklace.

she could have done it herself - but she knew my second favorite place on her body was her neck. it was where her chocolate colored hair ran into her pecan tan and shoulders. i had confessed my love to that part of her body at least 15 times before i confessed my love to her.

i found her on facebook tonight. i messaged her. between her screaming 'grow the fuck up!' and me pretending i didn't care she was leaving me - i deleted her number from my phone - or just changed the name to something i knew i wouldn't remember - hoping it'd get lost among the other 473 names in their already.

there is a woman in ethiopia i miss.
she's creating new shadows with some dude i've never met - nor cared to hear stories about.
i don't give a fuck how sweet he is.

i found her on facebook.
she looks happy.
happier than me. happier than she was with me.
i sent her two messages.
the first was:

-
dear beautiful:
i lost the recipe you gave me to your great aunt's dish.
-

she replied.
the second was:

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dear beautiful:
you look happy. i don't want to cross the line and ask for your heart back. remember when i told you sex can exist without the presence of a heart - have you been able to grasp that? let us fuck.
-

she hasn't messaged me back.
my phone rang.
not her. but she.
she was hungry and read on twitter that i was cooking.

she was on her way over.
we ate.

after a fantasy fulfilled on counters and stove tops, our appetites were as big as our eyes.
it began by the guest bathroom door next to the stairs as my head rested on the first step and her head moving slowly slightly above my abdomen - letting her forehead touch every so often.
one of those moments where God magically appears on the ceiling.

the mirror behind the mail table allowed me to watch - and smile
and she'd look up to see me seeing her enjoying parts of me i needed her to enjoy.

i sent a few messages to her inbox before she knocked tonight telling her moaning is what did it for me. our trip to the couch with the fucked up pillows i brought off craigslist was full of her attempting to wail louder than janet's 'but i didn't even get to cum.'

neither of us would use that line this night.

my tongue and her head moved in circles together. my tongue around her clit - her head around the room - and my pillow - leaving the smell of pink lotion and herbal essence - and cherry hair sheen.

this was not about me eating her out - it was about me find ways to keep her soul content.

i watched her lips part a bit - then come together again as though she needed to speak.
this time there was no need for words.

i needed to do to her what she did to me each time i'd brush pass the thing that hung where her throat began.

we moved - i do not believe in boredom.

her back pressed against the freezer door - then the refrigerator door - then the freezer door again.

my back arched at the coldness of old onion and green pepper pieces on the cutting board from our dinner just 56 minutes prior to this spontaneous session.
but it didn't matter.
the back of her thighs pressed against my chest and her head on a side tilt into the sink.
but it was comfortable.

i made all the right moves.
in and out and side to side.
but all slow.

two hours ago she asked: you like it slow or rough?
i responded: slow.
she asked: why?
i responded: there's this look a woman gets when my dick's easing down the walls like slow paint. there's a look i get. and there's something to be said for the beauty of it all.
she said: ok.

there's something about the kitchen that prohibits fucking.
kitchens require love making - a deep infatuation at least.

there were no curtains here.

her breasts pressed against the refrigerator and my chest pressed against her back - we danced naked to the southern hummingbird.
me inside her.
slow.

the tattoo on her shoulder of nelson mandela's handprint held my focus - this was not the time to cum - i need to hear her say it one more time:

her: no man has ever...ever...oh my god...oh...my...GOD

either she saw him in the room - or she saw him in me.

'i swear i'm spinning. i'm on a merry-go-round' - tweet said.

with the left side of her face pressed against the freezer and her lips held captive between her teeth she showed her deep infatuation with me in the refrigerator door's reflection where our eyes met.
and i followed - never coming out.

after the bleach bottles disappeared and the kitchen was clean again, i sat at the bar listening to tweet's track number 9 and waited for the smells we created to fade away while the smells of the potatoes, pancakes, salmon croquettes, eggs and turkey bacon took over.

so that's what i did last night. i watched her cook.