He liked to show that there was another side to his speed, his strategy, his reflexes. That his hands could create and nurture as well as they could tear down and rip apart.
He made her couscous to remind her of home, with fresh parsley and tomatoes and onions and eggplant. He made her a bourbon-marinated steak, to tell her something about where he came from too. He prepared a white chocolate souffle that was in the oven, waiting for the timer to start baking it, which he would serve after dinner, warm souffle topped with a homemade apricot-mint gelato. It wasn't a reminder or a message; he made it just because it was impressive.
Eliot put a tablecloth on the wooden dining table. He lit candles, dark red ones with no scent to interfere with the palate.
He heard the doorbell ring and he opened it.
She tossed a greasy bag of burgers on the couch and shoved him against the wall, her mouth on his as if she came here to devour him.
"Restaurants try my patience," she said when they parted, smiling lasciviously at him.
He loved this about her, the way she took what she wanted. The way she wasn't afraid to show the strength of her hands.
They tussled their way into the bedroom then, shedding items of clothing along the way. And while for a brief second, Eliot thought of the steaks getting cold and the couscous losing texture, he found something else to concentrate on soon enough.
And besides, fallen souffles may look rough and messy, but they still tasted real damn good.