“You know what the TRUE opiate of the people is?” he asks, waving my wooden spoon as sauce splats against my kitchen wall.
As usual, I perch on a stool, elbows on the counter, taking in the show.
Another sip of perfectly chilled $50 plus a bottle sauvignon blanc he brings, and wait. His questions are always rhetorical, not requiring more than a mere nod of my head.
“Bacon!” as another splat of sauce drips down the wall. “Bacon half-pound fat burgers on donut buns; chocolate-coated, batter dipped, deep fried bacon; bacon wrapped bacon . . .”
I reach for the wooden spoon before ALL of the sauce hits the ceiling.
“Yes, dear,” I murmur. Stroking his hand and his ego. He turns his wonderous handsomeness back to the stove and his special sauce. I love the way his 10 out of 10 ass moves as he cooks.
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