Sometimes I wonder: do I keep coming back for him, or for the food?
Watching him in the kitchen, tossing ingredients together seemingly at random with an almost bored expression… I have to think that either he’s done this so many times it’s become second nature – or he’s winging it.
Yohji’s a little more awake than I am, probably thanks to a cup of coffee that’s now perched on the edge of the counter next to him. Either that or the cigarette, dangling from his lip; either way, he still looks half asleep. His pants ride so low on his hips one good tug or a vague misstep could send them to the floor.
And what am I fantasizing about?
“What’s so funny?” he asks, the words bent around his cigarette.