Yield

 

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Knife slices through butter with effortless grace.
Scents of garlic and thyme rise from the oven
Like teasing fingers, promising better to come.
I watch unnoticed in a corner until,
“If you’re going to stand there, you can help.”

I shake my head but come anyway,
As if pulled by invisible rope.

If I help cook, I can help taste test too, right?
You smile knowing exactly what I’m thinking.
(You always do.)

“Chop these up,” you say.

“Your wish is my command.”

“I know. That’s why you married me.”

“Because….” I grab a knife. “I could never resist.”

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