Preparing dinner

In the kitchen, those odd tools always spark filthy thoughts. My curious girlfriend leans against the counter, same hunger in her eyes. The citrus press sits between us, its ridged cone catching the light. She grabs it first. Her palm moves over the textured surface, slow and deliberate. I watch the flush spread across her neck. The wooden spoons hang within reach, their curved handles smooth from years of use. She wraps her fingers around one, testing the weight. Neither of us speaks. The pestle sits in its mortar, heavy and blunt. She picks it up, runs her thumb along the rounded end. The rolling pin waits nearby, its wooden cylinder thick and solid. She bends slightly, and I catch the scent of her skin mixing with warm spices. The stand mixer hums to life. She dips two fingers into the batter clinging to the beater, brings them to her mouth, sucks them clean. I step closer. The flour dusts her forearms. The marble surface stays cool beneath her hands when she braces against it. Everything stays exactly where she leaves it. Everything moves exactly when she wants it.