The Kitchen Garden – Part 2: Long Evening

On the last night, they cooked a feast.

Everything came from the garden: tomatoes roasted with garlic, courgette flowers fried in a light batter, a salad of basil and mozzarella, a peach tart that Odile had decided, magnificently, to attempt. They worked side by side in the warm kitchen, radio playing, windows open to the scented dark.

"Taste," said Henri, holding out a spoon.

She tasted. "Perfect."

"You're lying."

"A little. It needs salt."

"It always needs salt." He shook some in, grinning. "Now it's perfect."

They ate at the long table under the plane tree, lit by a dozen candles in jam jars. Moths drifted past. A warm wind stirred the lavender. The wine was cold and sweet, the food ridiculous, the night enormous.

After dinner, the dishes sat unwashed. Henri switched on the old radio in the kitchen, and a slow French song drifted out.

"Dance with me," he said, holding out a hand.

"In the kitchen?"

"In the kitchen."

They danced barefoot on the stone floor, her head on his shoulder, his hand warm at her back. The song wound on. She felt his heartbeat against her cheek, and thought of every year it had kept time for her.

"Can I ask you something?" said Henri, against her hair.

"Yes."

"May I kiss my wife?"

"Yes," said Odile. "And if I say stop, you must cook every night for a year."

"I'd happily do it."

He kissed her, slowly, in the soft kitchen light, with the smell of basil and burnt sugar around them. She kissed him back with all the warmth of twenty-two years, her hands rising to his collar. The candles guttered outside, and the cicadas sang on and on.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Odile. "Very green."

In September, back in the city, they cooked together on Sundays. The tomatoes from the supermarket were terrible, and neither of them minded.

More married couple romance: The Cruise · Couples Retreat · The Second Honeymoon