The Dinner Party

The clock above the kitchen sink read 7:48 when I heard the metallic snap of Aya's key unlocking the front door. I opened the oven door and was rewarded with a blast of steam that smelled like a lazy August afternoon, all rich garden spices and earthy head. Inside was a boxy cookie sheet covered in heirloom tomatoes tossed in oil, fennel, basil, and oregano. They had been baking cut-side down for three hours, and the skins were shriveled and split and ready to be peeled. I pulled the sheet out and set it on the stovetop to cool, and turned back to the steak tenderloin I was slicing on the cutting board on the kitchen island.

"Hey babe," I called out as I heard her heels clicking down the tile hall.

"Hey yourself," she replied as she swept into our open kitchen and dining room. In her highest heels Aya was nearly as tall as I, a couple of inches short of six feet, with hair and eyes the color of German chocolate. She had dressed for court today, in a smart pencil skirt and blouse tailored to hug her slim curves and small, pert breasts.

"You should have called, I could have cancelled with Simon and Sarah. Or at least delayed."

"I didn't think I'd be cutting things this close, it was traffic more than anything." She closed her eyes and tilted her head back before breathing deeply through her nostrils. "That smells like heaven."

"Thanks."

She lifted one slender leg and unstrapped her heels, balancing like a crane on one foot. "How was your day?"

"Fine. Uneventful. They moved the department meeting until tomorrow, and I didn't have any classes to teach after two so I left early. I got a little writing done, too."

There was an opened bottle of pinot noir on the broad kitchen table, and after she removed her heels she poured a glass. "Do I need to get changed?"

"You look absurdly good, so no."

She smiled and sipped the pinot. "Is there anything I can do to help?"