The Cacao Workshop – Part 2: Tempered

"Yes," said Lucia. "Please do."

The kiss tasted of cinnamon and dark chocolate. Mateo's hand came up to her cheek, warm from the charcoal, and she slid her fingers into his hair. The courtyard hummed with crickets and the sweet smell of cacao. When they parted, they were both laughing, a little breathless.

"I have never kissed a woman covered in chocolate," said Mateo.

"You should try it more often."

"I intend to."

They carried a pot of hot chocolate and two cups up the narrow stairs to the roof terrace. A string of paper lights swung overhead. Beyond the wall the old city glowed amber. Stars crowded the sky.

"I want to be certain," said Mateo, sitting beside her on the cushions. "I would not like to presume."

"Mateo. I'd like to stay. I'd like it very much."

"Then I am happy."

His room was off the terrace, small and blue-walled, with a woven blanket and a window full of lantern light. They undressed slowly, laughing at chocolate-spattered sleeves and a stubborn apron string. The night was warm and the shutters were open. His hands were patient and certain, hers bolder than she'd expected, and everything between them was tender and unhurried, with the city murmuring far below.

In the morning, they made a new batch together, grinding for an hour in comfortable silence. When the paste was glossy and smooth, Mateo poured it into a small mould and let it set.

"For you," he said, handing her a single dark square. "It has no name."

She tasted it. Dark and warm, a little spiced, with a long sweet finish.

"I'd like to name it," said Lucia.

"What will you call it?"

"Tuesday," she said, and kissed him.

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