The sizzle of the onions and the garlic, as he chopped the meat, was all that he needed to shuck off the stress of the day. The pressure that he was under was the very last thing that he had expected when he had taken the job, but the truth of that was really just his own naiveté.
The meat chopped and the rice on to boil he poured a glass of wine from the bottle he had opened for the cooking and leant back on the surface across from the stove. He could hear the shower, upstairs, and smiled. He had been so engrossed in his cooking that Harry’s return home had gone unnoticed; he decided to pretend to be suprised when his lover came into the kitchen fresh and clean, the city washed away in his own very personal ritual.
He lit the candles on the table, and tried to resist the urge to re-straighten the napkins. Perfection was in the company and the food, not place settings, and anyway he did not want Harry to even suspect that this was a prelude to anything more than a re-kindling, a way to make time for each other.