A freshly starched shirt and faded levi’s with a worn knee.
The smell of baking apples, clove, cinnamon.
Water droplets at the base of a throat.
Bing Crosby’s voice.
The smell of old books.
A recipe , hand-written, from 1937.
A hot latte, waiting on the counter, post-shower.
A shoulder massage.
A forehead kiss.
The sound of clinking metal measuring spoons.
Anise-scented warm milk.
Shrimp, sauteed in garlic butter (by a guy who calls you “Sweetheart.”)
Poundcake recipes, handed down from generation to generation.
Homemade hot chocolate, from scratch.
Beef stew, with grass-fed beef.
Onions sauteed in butter.
In n Out Burger.
A full tummy on a cool night and a roaring fire.
Scrambled eggs with pesto and chevre.
Whispers in the dark.
Curls at the nape of the neck.
Roasted chicken with rosemary.
Tomato soup and grilled cheese.
Pot au creme.
Single malt scotch.
Sprecher’s root beer.
Really hot showers.
Crisp cotton sheets.
Vanilla ice cream.
Hot, strong coffee.
Smooth , soft skin.
Can you stand the heat?