Page 76 of True Colors

“I’ll cook,” I tell her, already moving toward the kitchen. “You can supervise.”

She laughs softly. “I am an excellent supervisor.”

The kitchen is open plan and chef-grade. It has stone counters, good knives, and a stove that begs to be used.

I roll up my sleeves and get to work, chopping shallots, slicing mushrooms, and heating stock.

Cooking has always been my way of thinking things through, and tonight, even with her, is no different. She gives me space even when she’s close.

She perches on a stool at the island, chin in her hands, watching me like I’m performing a magic trick.

As the risotto comes together—slow, patient, requiring attention—we talk. About nothing. About everything. About how she learned to love museums because they are silent, and no one expects her to speak.

“Favorite artist?” I ask.

“Joan Miró.”

I hum in acknowledgement.

“You know what they say?” she asks, eyes shining.

I grin at her enthusiasm. “What do they say?”

“That happiness is being a red dot in a Miró painting.”

I kiss her nose. She’s adorable, sexy, cute, and smart. Obviously, I’m stupidly in love. “Most people say Picasso or Monet or even Dali, not too many Miró lovers out there.”

She tilts her head. “He makes joy feel…intentional. Like he never forgot how to play.”

Who talks like this? I’ve never met a woman with this much depth. Most women I’ve been with were all business and more business, and here is someone who is a kickass data analyst, and she talks about art like she gets it, imbibes it, it’s not performance, it’s not skin deep, she truly loves it.

I know her birthday is in September, just a few months away. I own a small Miró lithograph. An original. I’ll gift it to her.

We’ll still be together then, I know it. Deeper into one another than we’re now.

I tuck the idea away like a secret I’ll unwrap later.

We eat at the dining table on the porch. She lit the candles, and it’s romantic like in a movie. The food is good—earthy, rich, comforting—and she closes her eyes on the first bite.

“This is really good.”

I grin. “High praise.”

She smiles back, relaxed, open. No walls. No armor.

After dinner, we curl up on the couch near the fireplace, a blanket pulled over our legs. She leans into me, head against my shoulder, and I thread my fingers through hers, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

We talk about art some more. About color. About how data, music, and paintings are all just different languages trying to explain the same things.

I listen to her and think—stupidly, sincerely—that I could do this forever: Cook for her. Learn her favorite things. Watch her come alive in safe spaces.

I’m so far gone it’s not even funny.

I lean down, kiss her slowly and sweetly under the slanting evening light. She melts into me. I lift her gently, her legs instinctively wrap around me, her breath warm against my neck.

“You sure about this, my starling?” I whisper against her ear.