Love is a Banquet

The noise of the front door opening then closing pulls me back to the present. Puzzled, I call out to Leo. What is he doing? I'm on my feet, going to investigate, when he bursts into the kitchen with a bottle of champagne.

'Next door were looking after it in their fridge,' he explains, as he wrestles with the cork. So we toast each other with some beautiful dry bubbly. 'Best thing I ever spent my student loan on,' he smiles broadly; letting me know that he paid for it himself, he didn't scrounge it off his family. I kiss him to show how much I appreciate his thoughtfulness.

Watching Jake

We drink the champagne toasting each other. Christening the beautiful flutes that Uncle Robert gave us. We also toast Uncle Robert and Patrick, now officially a couple. I'm so excited about this evening: I've never had an anniversary to celebrate before. We did think about treating ourselves and going somewhere flash; but what we both wanted was a meal alone together, at home. Jake asked me to wear a plain white shirt and jeans -- apparently that's what I was wearing that first night. I have a vague recollection of a horrid jumper; but tonight Jake's wearing a beautiful shirt we bought in Italy and some linen trousers. He looks so handsome: I feel so proud to be his.

Jake serves up the cannelloni. I love the pattern it makes: the neat parcels of eggy yellow pasta with their spiralled up green and white filling. Covered in the most delicious tomato sauce and the creamiest béchamel, with a hint of nutmeg. I savour each and every mouthful, watching Jake as he eats his: watching his mouth, catching glimpses of tongue and teeth. I feel so aroused watching him eat. How lucky was I to have found someone that can cook as well as they make love? He is undoubtedly the best thing that could ever have happened to me. When I think how close I came to wrecking everything, it still makes me feel physically sick, a wave of cold, clammy fear surging through me. I don't think I would have been able to carry on if he hadn't forgiven me. His love makes my life makes sense; gives me some point, some purpose. He's Bert to my Ernie.

I remember waiting for him to come home. I was feverishly tidying up, eradicating all traces of my infidelity. I don't ever think I've felt so bad in my life. I didn't know for sure that Jake would come back. His stuff was here -- his home was here -- but was his heart still here? I tidied up so I wouldn't have to think. But eventually I was done. Everything was sorted. All clean and tidy. But no Jake. I was so scared I'd do something stupid. I went to see how much paracetamol we had. I looked at the kitchen knives in a new light. I was desperate to keep myself occupied; to keep my head full of stuff to do. He came back just in time.

I sit back in my chair and enjoy watching Jake now as he makes chocolate sauce. He is busy stirring the sauce in the saucepan and I can see the concentration on his face, he looks so serious, so sweet! I can see in his face the child he once was. I feast my eyes on him, and admire his broad shoulders and strong stocky arms, his strength, but also the deftness and precision with which he measures and stirs. He looks inviolable, but I know his weaknesses, his flaws. He has an appendix scar, a commonplace enough imperfection, but this fascinates me; I can feel the raised skin with my fingertips, but I love to feel the tiny scar with my tongue, as a little detour on my journey south. I shake my head to dispel my thoughts as he sets the timer and serves up his home-made ice cream.

Jake leans across the table to pour the chocolate sauce over the creamy cold ice cream and I catch a glint of the delicate silver chain around his neck that I gave to him, along with a small silver ear-ring which I like to feel grating against my teeth as I bite his ear lobe gently. I spoon the sauce that runs off my ice cream, back onto the top and watch as it runs back down again, but more slowly this time. The sauce is dark brown, satiny and thick: delicious. Bittersweet chocolate and ice creamy sweetness. The hot and cold and bitter and sweet altogether in my mouth send me into raptures of praise for Jake's culinary talents.

'Thank you sweetie, I know it's your favourite.' and he leans across and removes a stray bit of sauce from the corner of my mouth with his finger which he then licks, grinning wickedly and sucking on his finger rather harder and longer than is absolutely necessary. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.

We take our coffee out into the garden and sit on the bench; enjoying the warm summer evening. I can smell roses and I breathe in deeply, enjoying the scent. The rose is 'Compassion' and was planted by Jake. His dad grew roses and this was his favourite. Mummy came over to talk about the garden with us (us? I know nothing about gardening), and it was comforting to see mummy and Jake deep in conversation about where he should plant this rose. They spent ages making plans for the garden and even went on a trip to the garden centre together.

The sky is clear and we stare up at the stars together. I could always recognise the Plough and Orion, but earlier in the year Jake showed me how to recognise the constellation Leo. We won't be able to see that again until next year. But it will come round again. And again. Year after year; marking the passage of time. Marking the years Jake and I are together. We sit together quietly and drink our coffee. Jake puts his hand on my leg and runs his finger up the inside of my thigh, making me squirm slightly with pleasure. He turns and smiles his 'I want you' smile and I know that this evening is going to end perfectly. Exhausted and satisfied; having exchanged our declarations and demonstrations of love; we will fall into sleep, entwined together.