What We Talk About When We Talk About Love - Anne Wright

When Susan saw Bill crumble saltines into his tomato soup, that was the moment she knew that she loved him. And when Bill tasted the beef stew that Susan made he said it reminded him of his Grandmother’s cooking. They loved each other and loved to eat, sometimes naked in the dining room chairs, with cloth napkins in their laps.

It was hard to talk about love sometimes because it wasn’t polite with a full mouth. So they learned to talk with their eyes and the hand that was free of the fork or spoon. Susan’s eyes crinkled at the corners when Bill smiled as he twisted the fettuccini on his fork. Bill’s nostrils flared when Susan licked the chocolate mousse from her lips. Susan brushed back the long blonde hair from her cheeks so it didn’t get buttery as she bit into the fresh French bread he baked each morning, and Bill lifted his hand to slip the kernel of corn from her chin to her mouth. Susan, from where she sat, next to him, fed him bites of wild salmon poached in white wine, capers and garlic, each morsel teasingly smaller until he was begging for just one more taste. Over and over he would twirl his finger in the garlic mashed potatoes and she would lick it off, her rough tongue exciting him. They loved each other more than they loved food.