Baile
She moves like a hurricane around the space of his kitchen, but not in a destructive, deadly way. She's a flurry of motion, yes, but her movement is fast, rhymthic, trapezing gracefully from one project to the next. She has commandeered his kitchen, preparing a meal that promises a merry team dinner, indeed. Christmas Eve will bring them all together that evening, and she intends to deliver a meal that will be worthy of the occasion.
When she arrives baring armfuls of groceries and supplies, he leaves her to her work with a wink, excusing himself briefly to shower and dress before the troops arrive later. It's when he's pulling his shirt over his damp hair that he hears the familiar tempo of a spanish classic. It's one of his favorite things about her that he's discovered; she never cooks without a tune.
He enters the kitchen, and her body moves with the beat as she travels from the stove to the counter; the pantry to his fridge. She's humming softly as the chorus picks up again, and she looks up quickly when he croons the well known verse, announcing his presence.
She laughs, her true smile being freed as he makes his way toward her. She pauses over the bowl she stands over stirring, putting down her wooden spoon as he steps closer to capture her hand in his and snake an arm around her waist.
"Baila me," he echoes the song, and she allows him to sweep her into his arms as the Gypsy Kings lead them in a dance around simmering pots and abandoned ingredients.
She humors him, taking her eyes off the task at hand, and settles closer to his body so she can feel him humming along to the song, her cheek pressed against his warm chest.
She has her favorite things about him, too, that she's discovered. He enjoys watching her, that she has known. But he also enjoys participating, bringing spontaneity to ordinary tasks.
And as he twirls her around, dipping her back on the last, punctuating note of the song, they both are reminded how they are so very grateful for each other.