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Description
The spoon sinks into warm curry with a satisfying ”glorp”, bubbles escaping brown beef rendang stewing on the old gas stove. It fills the air with aromas too numerous for me to name, blended together into harmonious whole like a symphony. Individual notes and identities disappear, sinking beneath a warm rich flavor that I can practically already taste, warming me from inside.

It's a good day for a curry, the rain driving down on flimsy shingles, finding its way into the woodwork, little by little winding its way through old beams and dripping down here and there in the old house, it's summer, but sometimes it doesn't matter, sometimes the land remembers that the ocean is just a hundred-odd feet away and rains and wind sweep in, just like today. It's cold outside my kitchen, but the stove and the rendang keep me more than warm. I glance out the window, hoping she's okay, but it isn't too windy. She'll be fine.

I taste the curry. It needs to reduce still, but it also needs more chili. I turn, make my way over to the cabinet, pick blindly in the dark at familiar containers, porcelain and glass marked neatly with labels by some grandmother or great-grandmother long ago. My fingers identify the chili jar, it's a routine by now, a knowledge deep in my bones. I take it out again, scatter a few fruits that crinkle beneath my fingers, put it back in its place. Lick to taste before running my hands under water, not too spicy but don't touch your eyes.

I hear her enter while I'm washing my hands. She's loud, slamming with boots and cupboards and bags, doesn't say anything but makes her presence known. Almost intangible comfort settles into me, the puzzle complete again, the sound of her a soft, familiar background music of my life. We don't speak at first; no hellos, there's no need for it. She knows I'm here.

I hear her enter the kitchen but I don't turn around. She sets down the bags on the floor, the telltale clinking of bottles against bottles.

”Did they have the Merlot I wanted?” I ask her.

She grunts in affirmation, her voice soft yet coarse. ”No dessert wine though. They were all out.”

”Aw.” I say, puncturing my sentence by tasting the rendang. ”That's too bad.”

”Bill and Jade will be right over, I think. I saw them readying the boat when I went past their pier.”

”Even with the weather?”

”Mmhm.”

I turn, finally. Her long blond curls hang like a soaked curtain around her face, water streaking between golden strands over her navy-blue jacket and clean snowy skirt. Or at least it was clean – now it clings to her legs with patches of bilge and boat all over it, almost blending into her once-white socks that probably took the worst of it. Her glittering blue eyes are on the stew. As I watch, her pouty lips part and the tip of her tongue sweeps across them. She's dripping all over my kitchen floor.

”Take off your jacket. It's soaked through.”

It's not meant for harsh weather, but then, she's a mainland girl, fashionable more than practical. She maneuvers it over her shoulders with difficulty, rolling them, arching her back. Underneath it she wears white, a tank top, her bra plainly visible through it – two darker crescents over her waxing-moon breasts. She sticks them in the air as she struggles, squirms against clinging wet fabric before finally the jacket surrenders, going slopping over a chair. Dripping on my kitchen floor.

I smile, reach for the tasting spoon and run it under water.

”Your skirt and top aren't much better off, I see.”

A single breath escapes her, hot, laden with promises. Her skin flashes pink, faint, imperceptible, but she feels it and so do I, even with my back turned as I'm washing the spoon.

”I'm pretty drenched.” she says evenly. ”It's raining a lot.”

”It's a good thing it's warm and dry in here.” I answer her.

I lay the clean spoon on a kitchen towel, running my fingers over the soft fabric, playing with the fringe near the end. It's checkered blue and white, a fine weave, hand-made, also by some grandmother or great-grandmother long ago. I lose track of which, but her initials are embroidered, neatly, at the base. I don't bother to turn around back to face her, I've got a curry to attend to.

”Take off your skirt. And your top.”

”Okay.”

Behind me, I hear fumbling hands, slightly unsteady, and the telltale wet noise of sopping fabric slapping against skin. Then, I hear it slapping against the floorboards instead, splashing down into puddles on my clean kitchen floor. It's a slow process but I don't mind listening, imagining what she looks like as she undresses. I can hear her breaths between the noisy clothes, little soft puffs with just the faintest hint of voice.

”Socks too.” I tell her, reaching for the pot lid and putting it snugly over the warm reducing meal. She sits down on a creaking chair, leaning backwards, grunting again as she peels off the socks, more water than fabric it sounds like. They'll need to be wrung and hung to dry, but with the rain right now that isn't happening.

I turn only when she's done. Her bra is patterned in grey and off-white, little stripes over the cups, water trickling down from between her breasts. Streams and rivulets run over her stomach, rounding her bellybutton, some of it trapped there and glittering like a pearl. Other droplets continue down to the hem of her panties, mismatching, off-white, almost beige. They're wet too, the rain really didn't spare anything, and I can see hints of a dark patch there between her legs, the wet flimsy fabric unable to conceal the verdancy beneath. She's blushing now, her cheeks soft shades of coral, her eyes downcast. Little beads of moisture linger in her eyelashes, scattering as she blinks.

”I'm wet.” she says, matter-of-factly.

”I know.”

Her eyes meet mine, just for a moment. It's warm in here, but to her it's even warmer now. It's good to get out of wet clothes, they'll do you no good against the cold.

”Underwear.” I tell her.

”But-”

”Your underwear's wet too. It's coming off.”

She swallows. Then she stands, and this time I don't return my attention to the stew. She sweeps the damp mop of hair back behind her shoulders, bunches it into a sloppy ponytail and wrings it, water trickling down her back. Twisting it a few times she lets it settle into a thick wet roll that she slings over one shoulder, getting it out of the way so she can reach behind her back.

New streams of water form from the hair on her shoulder, running into her armpit, trickling over her collarbone. Soon enough they wind their way over her naked breast, water rounding it gracefully, a droplet forming just round the tip of her nipple. It's pale, pale like the rest of her, just a faded champagne shade that almost vanishes against her skin now that she's blushing. Her other breast is drier, but no less flush. The bra joins her other garments on the floor.

She sighs. It's a long, deep sigh, pregnant with meaning, infused like my rendang stew with a sympony of flavors blending into one. I taste longing in it, a base of longing and pining, sweet desire with contrasting spicy hints. Anxiety. Humiliation. Shame and surrender. The pungent, addictive aftertaste of sex. It's a fine sigh, and I take my time to savor it, close my eyes to hear her give up, give in to me. Then I open them to watch her slip her sopping-wet panties down her legs.

They roll up and stick around her knees. She tangles with them in frustration, took them off too quickly, made a mess of it.

”Stop.” I tell her. ”Like that.”

”Like- like this?”

The notes of shame in her voice get stronger, more piquant. So does the taste of sex, though, a hot, welling thunder in the base of her stomach that her body betrays, her skin turning redder, her voice faltering. I let my eyes rest on the wild honey-dark between her legs, rich curls trapping rainwater between them, concealing almost but not completely the blushing of her lips. Her hands are still on the panties at her knees.

”Yes.” I tell her, and she sighs again, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. ”Kneel.”

She sinks down, defeated. Her panties are tangled just above where her knees meet the floor, she steadies herself, almost can't keep her balance. Her hands go behind her back, automatically, an instinct by now, she knows to do it but she still doesn't like it. Well. Part of her doesn't. Her back is straight, her eyes on me, her breasts sticking out proud like cliffs against the sea. A droplet still hangs from her nipple; I reach down and wipe it off, bring it to my mouth, taste it. Rainwater and sweat and sex and her. She shivers at the touch, whimpers, lets a sound escape her that betrays her yet again.

”Please.” she says.

”Please what?”

”Bill and... Jade will be here. Soon. They'll see me.”

I turn back to my stew, lifting the lid. My fingers seek out, automatically, the folded kitchen towel, the clean spoon put atop it. I pick it up, sink it softly into bubbling hot curry, sweep it side to side to gather up ingredients. I take my time, withdrawing a mouthful. The lid goes back on the pot, and I turn, bring the steamy warm spoon to her lips.

She tastes it, her mouth closing around the dollop of blended flavors. It's impossible to tell them apart now, what is sweet and what is spicy, but she savors them all, closes her eyes. Lets the sensation wash over her, hot chili mingling with tender beef and sweet soft onions, unable to tell where one flavor ends and another begins, unable to tell what is stinging and what is soft.

”I know.” I tell her.

From her expression, I think she'll enjoy our dinner.

Description
The spoon sinks into warm curry with a satisfying ”glorp”, bubbles escaping brown beef rendang stewing on the old gas stove. It fills the air with aromas too numerous for me to name, blended together into harmonious whole like a symphony. Individual notes and identities disappear, sinking beneath a warm rich flavor that I can practically already taste, warming me from inside.

It's a good day for a curry, the rain driving down on flimsy shingles, finding its way into the woodwork, little by little winding its way through old beams and dripping down here and there in the old house, it's summer, but sometimes it doesn't matter, sometimes the land remembers that the ocean is just a hundred-odd feet away and rains and wind sweep in, just like today. It's cold outside my kitchen, but the stove and the rendang keep me more than warm. I glance out the window, hoping she's okay, but it isn't too windy. She'll be fine.

I taste the curry. It needs to reduce still, but it also needs more chili. I turn, make my way over to the cabinet, pick blindly in the dark at familiar containers, porcelain and glass marked neatly with labels by some grandmother or great-grandmother long ago. My fingers identify the chili jar, it's a routine by now, a knowledge deep in my bones. I take it out again, scatter a few fruits that crinkle beneath my fingers, put it back in its place. Lick to taste before running my hands under water, not too spicy but don't touch your eyes.

I hear her enter while I'm washing my hands. She's loud, slamming with boots and cupboards and bags, doesn't say anything but makes her presence known. Almost intangible comfort settles into me, the puzzle complete again, the sound of her a soft, familiar background music of my life. We don't speak at first; no hellos, there's no need for it. She knows I'm here.

I hear her enter the kitchen but I don't turn around. She sets down the bags on the floor, the telltale clinking of bottles against bottles.

”Did they have the Merlot I wanted?” I ask her.

She grunts in affirmation, her voice soft yet coarse. ”No dessert wine though. They were all out.”

”Aw.” I say, puncturing my sentence by tasting the rendang. ”That's too bad.”

”Bill and Jade will be right over, I think. I saw them readying the boat when I went past their pier.”

”Even with the weather?”

”Mmhm.”

I turn, finally. Her long blond curls hang like a soaked curtain around her face, water streaking between golden strands over her navy-blue jacket and clean snowy skirt. Or at least it was clean – now it clings to her legs with patches of bilge and boat all over it, almost blending into her once-white socks that probably took the worst of it. Her glittering blue eyes are on the stew. As I watch, her pouty lips part and the tip of her tongue sweeps across them. She's dripping all over my kitchen floor.

”Take off your jacket. It's soaked through.”

It's not meant for harsh weather, but then, she's a mainland girl, fashionable more than practical. She maneuvers it over her shoulders with difficulty, rolling them, arching her back. Underneath it she wears white, a tank top, her bra plainly visible through it – two darker crescents over her waxing-moon breasts. She sticks them in the air as she struggles, squirms against clinging wet fabric before finally the jacket surrenders, going slopping over a chair. Dripping on my kitchen floor.

I smile, reach for the tasting spoon and run it under water.

”Your skirt and top aren't much better off, I see.”

A single breath escapes her, hot, laden with promises. Her skin flashes pink, faint, imperceptible, but she feels it and so do I, even with my back turned as I'm washing the spoon.

”I'm pretty drenched.” she says evenly. ”It's raining a lot.”

”It's a good thing it's warm and dry in here.” I answer her.

I lay the clean spoon on a kitchen towel, running my fingers over the soft fabric, playing with the fringe near the end. It's checkered blue and white, a fine weave, hand-made, also by some grandmother or great-grandmother long ago. I lose track of which, but her initials are embroidered, neatly, at the base. I don't bother to turn around back to face her, I've got a curry to attend to.

”Take off your skirt. And your top.”

”Okay.”

Behind me, I hear fumbling hands, slightly unsteady, and the telltale wet noise of sopping fabric slapping against skin. Then, I hear it slapping against the floorboards instead, splashing down into puddles on my clean kitchen floor. It's a slow process but I don't mind listening, imagining what she looks like as she undresses. I can hear her breaths between the noisy clothes, little soft puffs with just the faintest hint of voice.

”Socks too.” I tell her, reaching for the pot lid and putting it snugly over the warm reducing meal. She sits down on a creaking chair, leaning backwards, grunting again as she peels off the socks, more water than fabric it sounds like. They'll need to be wrung and hung to dry, but with the rain right now that isn't happening.

I turn only when she's done. Her bra is patterned in grey and off-white, little stripes over the cups, water trickling down from between her breasts. Streams and rivulets run over her stomach, rounding her bellybutton, some of it trapped there and glittering like a pearl. Other droplets continue down to the hem of her panties, mismatching, off-white, almost beige. They're wet too, the rain really didn't spare anything, and I can see hints of a dark patch there between her legs, the wet flimsy fabric unable to conceal the verdancy beneath. She's blushing now, her cheeks soft shades of coral, her eyes downcast. Little beads of moisture linger in her eyelashes, scattering as she blinks.

”I'm wet.” she says, matter-of-factly.

”I know.”

Her eyes meet mine, just for a moment. It's warm in here, but to her it's even warmer now. It's good to get out of wet clothes, they'll do you no good against the cold.

”Underwear.” I tell her.

”But-”

”Your underwear's wet too. It's coming off.”

She swallows. Then she stands, and this time I don't return my attention to the stew. She sweeps the damp mop of hair back behind her shoulders, bunches it into a sloppy ponytail and wrings it, water trickling down her back. Twisting it a few times she lets it settle into a thick wet roll that she slings over one shoulder, getting it out of the way so she can reach behind her back.

New streams of water form from the hair on her shoulder, running into her armpit, trickling over her collarbone. Soon enough they wind their way over her naked breast, water rounding it gracefully, a droplet forming just round the tip of her nipple. It's pale, pale like the rest of her, just a faded champagne shade that almost vanishes against her skin now that she's blushing. Her other breast is drier, but no less flush. The bra joins her other garments on the floor.

She sighs. It's a long, deep sigh, pregnant with meaning, infused like my rendang stew with a sympony of flavors blending into one. I taste longing in it, a base of longing and pining, sweet desire with contrasting spicy hints. Anxiety. Humiliation. Shame and surrender. The pungent, addictive aftertaste of sex. It's a fine sigh, and I take my time to savor it, close my eyes to hear her give up, give in to me. Then I open them to watch her slip her sopping-wet panties down her legs.

They roll up and stick around her knees. She tangles with them in frustration, took them off too quickly, made a mess of it.

”Stop.” I tell her. ”Like that.”

”Like- like this?”

The notes of shame in her voice get stronger, more piquant. So does the taste of sex, though, a hot, welling thunder in the base of her stomach that her body betrays, her skin turning redder, her voice faltering. I let my eyes rest on the wild honey-dark between her legs, rich curls trapping rainwater between them, concealing almost but not completely the blushing of her lips. Her hands are still on the panties at her knees.

”Yes.” I tell her, and she sighs again, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. ”Kneel.”

She sinks down, defeated. Her panties are tangled just above where her knees meet the floor, she steadies herself, almost can't keep her balance. Her hands go behind her back, automatically, an instinct by now, she knows to do it but she still doesn't like it. Well. Part of her doesn't. Her back is straight, her eyes on me, her breasts sticking out proud like cliffs against the sea. A droplet still hangs from her nipple; I reach down and wipe it off, bring it to my mouth, taste it. Rainwater and sweat and sex and her. She shivers at the touch, whimpers, lets a sound escape her that betrays her yet again.

”Please.” she says.

”Please what?”

”Bill and... Jade will be here. Soon. They'll see me.”

I turn back to my stew, lifting the lid. My fingers seek out, automatically, the folded kitchen towel, the clean spoon put atop it. I pick it up, sink it softly into bubbling hot curry, sweep it side to side to gather up ingredients. I take my time, withdrawing a mouthful. The lid goes back on the pot, and I turn, bring the steamy warm spoon to her lips.

She tastes it, her mouth closing around the dollop of blended flavors. It's impossible to tell them apart now, what is sweet and what is spicy, but she savors them all, closes her eyes. Lets the sensation wash over her, hot chili mingling with tender beef and sweet soft onions, unable to tell where one flavor ends and another begins, unable to tell what is stinging and what is soft.

”I know.” I tell her.

From her expression, I think she'll enjoy our dinner.