To fix a memory in your mind, associate it with a sense.
As some might guess, I prefer taste-and-smell.
So the way he feels when he presses against me and kisses me reminds me of smoked paprika, his hand on the back of my neck, his hair trailing across my neck.
The way his words sound, when he tells me – and I must remember these words – that I am the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Those words, they are like the finest chocolate, a little too sweet, but rich and lingering on the tongue.
The way his back looks when he leaves after that first date, as if he’s uncertain, his shoulders pulled forward, remind me of lime zest: tangy, and a bit bitter.
When he comes back for seconds, before he’s gotten to his car: cheesecake, drizzled in raspberry sauce.
Those moments are nice. Those are warm moments. Tasty moments.
I have citric acid on the shelf, cayenne pepper, noni juice, for moments that were not as nice.
And I have this moment, that I wish to remember more than anything. This moment, with his eyes so big and blue and hovering right on the edge of pain/love/need. Right where he might fall, or might not.
And if his first romantic words were chocolate, this, this is chocolate liqueur poured over pound cake. This is a moment to savor. He might have, once, been spinning a story. Now he’s in love. And it tastes like the best thing I have ever cooked.
Some people have a Roman House. I have a Roman kitchen to store my memories in. And I’ll put him on the shelf next to the others.
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