The kitchen was a golden sanctuary at 8:17 a.m., sunlight pouring through the bay window in thick, liquid streams, viscous, molten, dust motes drifting like slow-motion fireflies caught in amber light, each particle glowing, twirling, settling on the oak table, the granite counters, the curve of Linda's shoulder, catching in the fine hairs on her arms, glinting like tiny diamonds.
The air was warm, heavy, layered with butter melting in the pan, cinnamon spicing the pancake batter, coffee brewing in the French press, dark, rich, steaming, bacon fat popping in the cast-iron skillet, sizzling, spitting tiny droplets that hissed on the stove, smoke curling in thin, fragrant wisps.
And her—Linda's scent clinging to every corner, sweet, milky, musky, divine, vanilla, salt, sex, sweat, blood—thick, heady, impossible to wash away, lingering in the steam from the shower, coating the back of my throat like honey, sticking to my tongue, nostrils flaring with every breath.
