A shy reference librarian, and a college student who was disowned when she refused to submit to conversion therapy, meet in a bookstore. He's been waiting his whole life for her. Meanwhile, she's starting her whole life over. What ensues between the...
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We're doing Greek tonight because that's what he felt like preparing. Feta cheese, sliced cherry tomatoes, chopped salad greens, and kalamata olives, sprinkled with ladolemono dressing; spanakopitas; chilled dolmathes; moussaka, the sweet tomato sauce used in its preparation leaving an aftertaste of basil and cinnamon; baklava for dessert. Accompanying this is white wine, a dry, crisp Moscofilero from the Peloponnese (according to the label that I read, since I am not a wine expert enough to be able to identify wine by taste alone). He's made everything from scratch except for the phyllo dough used in the spanakopitas and the baklava; he bought the sheets of dough pre-made in the frozen food aisle of the local grocery store. This is his idea of being lazy. The grape leaves came from wild vines that grew by the banks of a local stream. I helped him gather them.
I love it when he cooks.
"I think I might have overcooked a little," he says at last, "but that's all right, it just means there will be leftovers. Here, have some more moussaka. You're staring at it as if it's the Holy Grail. Are you sure you're getting enough to eat at home?"
"Yes," I lie, and go back to attacking my food.
Some time later I feel his eyes watching me and look up from the second helping of baklava I've been nibbling at.
"Yes, Magister?"
"I'm ready for dessert."
"It was very good baklava. Wait, I thought you already had some."
"I wasn't referring to the baklava," he says with a smile. "Come to bed."
I shiver with anticipation.
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Brahms' First Symphony plays on the portable CD player as, legs splayed and shackled to the futon frame, I strain underneath Magister. Every time he bites me on the neck, I shudder, and pull at the manacles that pin my wrists together above my head. When he comes up to devour my mouth, his kiss tastes like wine and spice.
We're not doing lessons or magickal work tonight, so I have my voice back.
"Can you please reposition my wrists?" I ask. "I want to be able to hold you."
