She was baking in the kitchen.

Watching from the table, I was drinking wine.

The weather was horrid.

Southerly squalls howled in from the ocean.

Rain pelted our little house,

The windows shifted in their sills.


Her slender hands worked quickly.

No mess or wasted effort.

Ingredients measured, each motion precise.


Scents hung layered in the air,

Filled the room.

Flower, honey, oats, brown sugar.

Warmed by the waiting oven.


She worked with purpose,

Stern focus on her face,


And she forgot she was being watched.


I tried to write but was going nowhere.

Wine swirled in my glass, sweet air swirled in the room.

I smelled oak, vines, butter.


She shifted her feet at the counter as she worked,

Back and forth with light footsteps.

Reaching, mixing, her back arched,

Muscles tensing, and relaxing,

Flexing in delicate sequence.


Rain peppered the windows with new vigor.

A door slammed in the hall.

The dog shifted in his bed.

She worked.

I tried to write.


The old oven door squealed open.

Hinges groaned, warmth spilt,

I felt it on my face.

Trays clanged and scraped on racks,

The oven door closed reluctantly,

Sealed with a dulled thud.


She turned to me with the small of her back on the bench edge.

Removed her oven mitts with a sigh.

The rain and wind danced over my shoulder.

I tried to write.

The dog shifted in his bed.






Post a comment
  1. Z #
    January 10, 2012

    I feel like I was standing in the hallway watching the scene from your description. I especially liked the description of smells. It reminds me of something familiar.

    • January 12, 2012

      Thanks very much. I’m working on smell, touch, see, hear type descriptions at the moment. Trying to get all the senses in there. Make it seem real.

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