It was January, and the modest kitchen of their Hoosier farmhouse was warm and cozy with the scents of fur and food, post-Christmas memories (they'd taken down the tree this morning), and of a New Year's full-spread, horizon-hung promise (but, then, promise, for a knowing Christian, was an everyday, living thing, and not exclusive to set holidays and events).

"They always say how onions are supposed to make you cry," Rhine said, situating a big, white onion on the plastic cutting-board. "Like they must be some kind of sad, sad vegetable ... " She trailed, and then looked up, her eyes bright. "Are onions even vegetables, though?" Her sturdy rudder-tail swayed a bit, right-to-left and left-to-right, through the tail-opening in the fabric of her simple, home-sewn dress. She was, at twenty-three, healthy and fit. An active, rural otter. Her heritage evident in the accent of her voice. (As it was, also, in her husband's voice.)

Orinoco, taking a sip from a glass of water, paused. "I assume so." His bare foot-paws made a soft scuffing sound on the linoleum of the floor. "I never gave it much thought ... I know that tomatoes aren't vegetables. They're fruits. But I don't think onions are fruits." A shake of the head, and he sipped more water. His ears cocked.

"Well, cause," she said, using a sharp, black-handled knife to slice a chunk off the onion, "only I heard that they weren't. Onions, I mean. Aren't vegetables. I heard they were part of the lily family. And then I looked it up, you know, in the dictionary," she explained, "and that's what it said. ‘A plant of the lily family.' And it said how it has an edible bulb with a strong, sharp smell and taste." She began peeling the onionskin off the chunk she'd cut. And then she looked up, again, to her husband, saying, "By all rights, they must be sad, sad edible lily-things, then ... but that sounds better than if they were just sad, sad vegetables, don't you think?"

The male otter smiled and chuckled a bit. At both his wife's words and her tone of voice, which was, as always, innocent and joyous. And encouraging. She found delight in the smallest of things. And it was a contagious attitude, one that rubbed off on him. She was, indeed, a light in his life. Strong in her Christian faith, and pure in her intentions. And he put his water glass down, on the counter next to the sink, and padded a few steps toward her, stopping beside her, looking down. "I do think so," he agreed, responding to her out-loud wondering. And, after a pause, "Well, I always thought onions were a bit suspicious, anyway, so ... "

"Oh, they are," Rhine agreed, smiling, her claws taking the last remaining bits of onionskin off. "They are." And her eyes did water a bit. "Well, I guess it is making me cry ... or, at least," she corrected, "making me misty. Smell how strong this is. Makes you blink a lot." She lifted the cut-in-half onion, wafting the scent around.

Orinoco's nose sniffed, and he had to squint his eyes. He nodded intently. "Mm ... oh, I'll agree."

"You sniffing it?"

"I'll take your word for it, darling," he said. His nose sniffed. And he blinked heavily, clearing the water from his eyes, backing away just a bit.

A giggle. "Okay ... but onions are very headstrong, you know. You gotta respect them for that, at least."

"I like onion rings," Orinoco said. "I respect onion rings."

A giggle. "Well, that makes two of us. Though it depends on what kind of onion rings ... different places make them different."

"Raw onions, though," Orinoco continued, shaking his head. "A whole different thing ... "

"Seems so." A pause. And a head-tilt. "I just wonder where they got their cockiness from?" Rhine wondered. "I think it's wonderful, though," she said, "God making so many things for us to eat. I must thank Him for that," she said, "in my next prayer." She smiled, biting her lip, and she put the onion down, and then pushed it aside a bit, to the edge of the cutting-board. And, instead, she focused on the chunk she'd cut off. The thin, dry-skin-like peel of it having been pushed aside, too. And she began chopping the little chunk into smaller, smaller pieces. Which continued to make her eyes water a bit. She continuously blinked.

"So, uh ... what are you doing, then?" Orinoco asked, blinking, hovering over her shoulder. His nose sniffed.

"I'm dicin' some onion."

"Well, I know that. I can SMELL that," he said good-naturedly, blinking several times (for the onion was, indeed, still heavily-impacting the senses). "But what for? I don't remember that you told me ... "

"Oh, soup," she said. "Soup."

"Soup? Onion soup?"

"Oh, no ... no, I don't like onion soup, remember? This is potato soup," she said, smiling, turning her head. Their eyes met. And then she turned her attention back to the dicing. "It calls for a bit of onion. Actually, the full recipe calls for TWO whole onions, but I know from experience," she assured, "that that's just two onions too many, so I'm just puttin' a little bit in ... I don't want it too pungent."

"Well, you're a wiser cook than me," he answered, nodding. "I think that's for the best."

"What," she asked, "is for the best? Not using so much onion ... or me bein' a better cook than you?" She stopped her dicing. Very nearly finished with it, anyway. And, putting the knife down, she turned to him. Her rump and her rudder-like tail pressing against the edge of the wooden, kitchen table. And his belly now leaning into hers. She put her paws on his button-up shirt, tugging harmlessly.

"Mm," he went, a somewhat throaty sound. And he swallowed. "Both, I guess," was his eventual, whispered reply. And he let out a small, little sigh, and he put his nose into the rich-brown fur of her neck. And, closing his eyes, he took a small, peaceful breath. "Mm," was his repeated sound. "You smell lovely ... like I wanna lick you up ... "

She flushed a bit, beneath the fur. "Well, I, uh ... used that shampoo," she said, "for my fur. The fruit kind. The apple one. I normally use the flower kind, the lilac one ... "

"Well," he said quietly, pulling his nose away, "you always smell good. I don't know what it is, but ... shampoo or not, it's ... " He nose-nuzzled her neck for a few seconds, and then stopped. "The scent of you," he whispered, "never fades from my mind. It never goes away."

She smiled, touched, almost swooning. "Well, I ... fetch me a pot, will you? From the closet?" she breathed, swallowing.

Orinoco pulled back, nodding lightly, and he turned around and opened the folding-door that covered the interior of the closet, which had shelves, boxes of cereal, and canned goods.

It was a cold day, two weeks into winter. Not grey and overcast. Not miserably rainy like it had been. Actually, the sun was out, and the sky was blue (somewhat; more like an off-blue, very pale, not that rich, vibrant blue that one always preferred). But, even so, the temperature was right around thirty degrees. Never getting higher. Dipping, maybe, a little bit lower as the day wore on. Certainly getting lower during the twilight. And the days still, of course, very short. Dark by five, seemingly. Which, admittedly, wasn't always a bad thing. Winter nights could be very romantic ...

... and it would be dark, wouldn't it, in about half an hour? It was after 4:30.

The Eel River, outside, was very cold, and the banks were all muddy from recent showers. The trees that lined it were all completely bare. White-breasted nuthatches and downy woodpeckers ate from the suet cakes Rhine had tacked to the tree-trunks. And the new year only being a day or so old, the two otters, husband and wife, were staying inside, relaxing. Letting the day pass by, just as the water in the river passed by. There wasn't much work to be done today.

Sometimes, you just had to stay still. And cook. And talk.

And be.

"This one?" Orinoco asked, holding a silver-colored pan.

Rhine turned, raising her brow. "Um ... yes, I think that one will do." She paused, biting her lip, and her whiskers gave a singular twitch. "Well, yes, I think so ... I'm trying to think," she said, "if we should use a bigger one."

"Well, it's only soup for the two of us, right?"

A gentle nod from the femme otter.

"Well, what else are we having," he asked, "besides the soup?" The end of his rudder-tail rested on the floor.

"Celery sticks with peanut butter, chopped carrots ... uh, some oatmeal bread, and ... no fish tonight," she said. They'd had that for lunch. "I thought this would be a bit different."

A smile. "It sounds good to me." A pause. "This pan, I think, then. If it's just soup for the two of us." And he closed the folding-door to the closet, turned, and put the pan down on the table. The silver of the pan was a bit faded, now. Having been in use for many years. Rhine and Orinoco lived on a very modest budget. Rhine had gotten a lot of her pots and pans and kitchenware from Pearl, Orinoco's mother. Orinoco's parents lived about two miles down the gravel road.

"Alright," Rhine breathed, in a very soft, soft whisper, and she scooped up the finely-diced onion bits with her paw, and then put them in the pan. "Now, I need two tablespoons of butter with that, and it needs to come to a simmer ... and, once it does, I add the red potatoes. Which," she said, her voice bright, "I shall cut up next ... uh," she said, somewhat shyly, looking around. And then to her husband. "Would you like to simmer the onions? Or cut the potatoes? I suppose I should ask ... "

"Not anything you need my permission for," she assured, smiling. He tilted his head. "You don't need my permission for much of anything."

"I'm not asking your permission," she joked, smiling back at him, giving him a wink. "I'm asking your preference. So, then, I can order you to do one or the other ... but, if you choose which one to do, it makes it not seem like such an order."

A chuckle. "Hmm ... uh, alright ... "

"Onions or potatoes?"

"I'll cut up the potatoes," he said. "A pressure-packed decision, but ... potatoes. Potatoes."

"Okay, then." She gently took the pan on the table, by the black handle, and lifted it and carried it to the oven. And said, "Oh, you have to peel them, too," she said.

"Peel them?"

"Yes, the potatoes must be peeled, darling. Peeler's in the ... "

" ... first drawer," he said, nodding, and he went to fetch it, smiling, and saying aloud, "I feel, somehow, that I was just tricked into doing the task that requires the most effort."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm sure. A big male like you ... you can handle potatoes, can't you?"

"I can," he assured, chuckling, feeling a bit silly. But he didn't really mind that. Feeling silly. Sometimes, it could do you good. So, he went to the corner of the kitchen, where the potato bags were leaned, and he withdrew a few red potatoes, bringing them to the cutting board. And he began to peel them there.

"Uh ... the sink," Rhine whispered, nodding to the sink. "Peel them over the sink. That way you can get rid of the peels with the garbage disposal."

"Oh. Right," Orinoco said. And he gathered the potatoes, bringing them to the sink. And began peeling them. The peeler making a ‘slip-slip-slip' sound.

"See, you peel them over the sink, and you cut them on the cutting-board," Rhine told him, as she fetched a stick of butter from the refrigerator. "There's a way for everything, you see."

"I'm not hopeless in a kitchen," Orinoco assured. "I'm not one of those males that can't fend for himself in a kitchen."

"I didn't say you were," Rhine assured, smiling to herself.

"Most of the top chefs you see on the television and stuff, they're male. The ones in restaurants, you see that they're male. Males can cook."

"I didn't say," Rhine assured, "a single thing." And she smiled and glanced over at him, watching him peel the potatoes. And she couldn't resist adding, "Most of those male cooks? They're male mice and squirrels and stuff ... not otters."

"You're an otter. And you're a good cook."

"Well, I'm a FEMME otter ... "

"So, what, you're saying males can cook, but ... NOT male otters, though?"

"I think you're unbelievably cute," was all Rhine said, beaming, giggling to herself. "Mm ... " A sigh, and she returned to the task at paw. For a moment. And then she looked back to him, her eyes lingering.

‘Slip-slip-slip. Slip-slip ... ' And he stopped the peeling, turning his head.

And Rhine looked away, eyes glowing, knowing she'd been caught.

"What?" he pressed.

She shook her head, grabbing a butter knife. Slicing off two tablespoons of butter from the butter stick she'd gotten.

"You were starin' at me ... with that hungry look," he assured. "I saw you. I know the hungry look when I see it."

"Well," Rhine said, slowly, dropping the unwrapped bits of butter into the pan, and turning the right, left burner to medium-heat. "Well, I won't ... uh ... so, what? Am I not allowed to stare at you?"

"It was a hunger-stare ... "

"And?" she asked. "Thought you liked that." She grinned, turning to look at him again. Her eyes bright and direct, now.

"I do," he said quietly, playfully, "like it."

"Maybe I should keep staring, then," she whispered. Her rudder-tail swayed. Then stopped.

"What about the soup? Mustn't we start the soup?"

"We must," Rhine whispered, letting out a heated breath, "start the soup, yes. This is our supper. We gotta eat ... "

"Well, how many potatoes you want peeled? I already peeled two."

"Two more," she assured, and she eyed the diced onions in the melted butter. They weren't simmering yet. "Can you give me the spatula? It's in the ... "

" ... second drawer. I do know where everything is, darling. I'm just as good in the kitchen," he assured again, "as you are."

Her pupils seemed to dilate at that comment. Perhaps gleaning multiple meanings from it. "I'm not going to argue that," she said, at a whisper, and she padded toward him. Reaching a paw out.

He opened the second drawer, found a spatula, and extended it to her.

She shyly nodded. "Thank you," she whispered, and she turned back to the stovetop, where the onions were now simmering, just a bit, in the butter. "Ooh, listen to that sound. Isn't that a lovely sound?" she breathed.

"Mm?" Orinoco, having peeled a third potato, perked his angular ears atop his head. "That simmer-sound?"

"Yes, that ... simmer-sound," she breathed. "And you know what? The onions don't make me wanna cry anymore," she said, as she put her nose above the pan, where a bit of steam was wafting up. "They smell remarkably sweet, now, for some reason. And I didn't add any sugar or anything ... " A few sniffs, her whiskers giving a twitch, and her ears cocked. "Mm." A sigh. "Maybe it's the butter," she reasoned. "Maybe it's neutralizing the onions."

"That makes sense ... " ‘Slip-slip-slip,' went the peeler, as Orinoco went, "I don't remember the last time we had potato soup."

"Been a few months," she agreed, nodding, leaning against the oven. And she closed her eyes, swallowing. The sunlight coming through the kitchen windows washed over her. Making it seem a bit warmer than it really was. The corn stove, in the other room, was set on low. "I miss," she whispered, "the spring. And the summer ... " She opened her eyes, breathing deep, and then letting out a sigh. And smiled. "Even with the lot-more-fleas and the having-fur-in-ninety-degree-weather stuff." A pause. "But, then, I suppose everyone misses the summer when it's gone." A pause. Her reflection continuing. "There's a beauty in winter, though ... all its own. Truly. I must be careful not to miss it."

"I don't think you will," Orinoco assured, gently. "You have an eye for beauty."

A flush. Flushing hotter beneath her fur. "I wouldn't say that ... "

"I would." No hesitation in his voice. Just a knowing confidence.

"Well ... " She trailed, swallowing, and then took a breath, whispering, "Well, I often think, you know, how its all a matter of degrees."

"Temperature degrees? Like cold and hot?"

"No, no ... like, degrees of ... of view," she said, leaning against the oven, scrunching her features, trying to word her thoughts. And then her muzzle melted into a small smile. "Like, one day," she said, "at church, remember how there was a spider coming down from the ceiling?"

A slight chuckle. "Yeah."

"The preacher didn't see it, and it was ... hanging down by a silk thread, a foot or so from him. Everyone in the room saw it. Except he didn't, and ... afterwards, you know, when I mentioned it to him, he laughed. He thought that was great." A pause. "But that only goes to show, you know, that ... sometimes, we miss the obvious things, I think. Like, little miracles. Furs pray and they want God to answer them with pyrotechnics. They want God to prove Himself ... when it's WE who should be proving ourselves to Him. But they want Him to flash miracles in front of their whiskers. Obvious, explosive miracles, and when He doesn't do that, they shrug Him off, but ... that's not really how He works. Most miracles are the ones so small and fleeting, the ones in the details. The ones we never see coming." She considered. "God is never obvious. He's ... vast and delicate and intricate, and ... " A breath. "Like, sometimes, all we need is to be nudged ... a few degrees," she said. "He helps us by giving us those nudges, those little helping moments of maturation, and then we can see that spider hanging from the ceiling. That miracle. That thing so close to us ... that we kept missing," she whispered, "because our focus was all wrong."

Orinoco took a slight breath through the nose, and nodded in thoughtful agreement, whispering, "Your faith, darling ... I don't know that mine would be as strong as it is," he said, "without yours." His eyes darted, and then went back to her own eyes, where their gazes locked. "You just build me up. You keep me strong."

A flush. And she looked away. "I think you're stronger than I am ... "

"Physically, yeah, but ... that's not what matters."

"You have a lovely heart," she assured. "I love you." Her voice was soft. Tender. Meaningful.

"I know. I love you, too. I ... I just think," he whispered, "that your soul is lovelier. You give off more light than anyone I've met. It was what first attracted me to you ... your smile, and how you talked, and ... you know?"

Rhine flushed. She bit her lip, using the spatula she'd been given to stir the simmering onions, which were now being sautéed with butter. "Well, I do hope it snows or something. I know the winter's young, but all it's been," she said, "is rain and drizzle and ... plain old cold. I could do with some icicles and snow and ... feels like a weak winter so far." A pause. And a head-tilt, and a single nod. "But that's what I mean, from ... from just now," she explained. "Is that I keep looking for the beauty of winter in blanketing snow and hanging icicles. But there's beauty in the every-day winter, just like there is in the every-day summer, and ... " She trailed. And then let out a breath, her breasts rising and falling. And she admitted, "I'm not the best deep-thinker. I ... can't really be concise," she admitted, looking over to her husband, "with my deep thoughts. I'm not a poet."

"You don't have to be. I'm not a poet, either," he responded. "And I think you express yourself just fine. You're very optimistic, and very open, and ... you make me wanna open up, too. You bring out the best in others. In me. So, you might not be a poet, no, but ... sometimes, I see a great deal of poetry in you. In your actions. In your ... movements," he whispered, swallowing. And he sighed a bit. And there was a pause. "And, you know, there's months left of it."

"Of winter?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. So, you may just get your wish. We may just get a blizzard or two, or even three, and then we'll be snowed in, utterly, totally trapped," he whispered, "together, with no electricity and nothing to do ... " His head turned and their eyes met again, locking again. "That may just happen," he whispered.

Rhine swallowed, and then, almost unconsciously, she licked her dry lips a bit. "Could just," she whispered, trailing. Her tone indicating that, no, she wouldn't object to such a thing. Even without electricity, even being stuck, they could surely make some heat of their own. They could surely ward a blizzard off, couldn't they? They could surely weather it. "I do hope so ... for though beauty and lessons to be learned are ever-evident in the details we often skip over ... sometimes, it's just nice to be buried in a show of beauty and natural force, you know?"

"I know," was the low, breathy whisper. And another pause. And, "I'm, uh ... done with the potatoes," Orinoco whispered. He swallowed, taking a deep breath through his nose. His whiskers twitched a few times, then stopped. Otter-whiskers weren't the over-active kind. They were very low-key.

"You gotta cut them," Rhine whispered back. "The potatoes."

"Oh." He flushed beneath his fur, giving off some extra heat. "That's right. Sorry ... "

"No reason to be sorry ... uh ... " She turned the front, left burner to the lowest heat setting, and then padded toward her husband. "Uh, cut them in little chunks. Not slices. Just ... we're gonna use a blender on them, anyway, when they're softened."

"A blender?" The knife going ‘chop-chop-chop,' and him going, "Aren't you supposed to be able to see the potatoes? To leave chunks in the mix?"

"Well, it's a soup, not a stew. We want it to have a, uh ... creamy, somewhat-thick texture. But you gotta mix the potatoes with the broth and the onions, and ... " She trailed. Her distraction obvious, now. And she swallowed, watching his paws. He had such nice paws. His paw-pads were rougher than hers. From so much fishing and outdoor work (and play). Not as smooth as her own, though her paw-pads showed their outdoor exposure, too. But his? He was strong, yes. She loved to run her paws over his form, and let his paws feel her up, in return. His paws. Oh, they only made him more masculine. Only seemed to accentuate his strength. They felt so nice when they touched her, ran behind her back, down the length of her rudder-like tail. When they went ...

" ... into the pan?" Orinoco asked. "Rhine?"

"Mm?" A dazed blink. And she licked her lips again, looking to his eyes. "Yes?" Her pupils very dilated, now.

He noticed. And stammered. "Uh ... well, you want me to put the potatoes in the pan?"

"Yes," she breathed, nodding lightly. "Yes, and I'll, uh ... and stir it, get the onions and butter on it, and in a few minutes, we'll add the broth. I'll," she corrected, "add the broth. I ... it's in the cupboard." She took a deep breath, as if trying to stabilize herself. She felt a fierce heat in her loins, like a burgeoning moistness. The unmistakable rearing of arousal.

"Okay," Orinoco whispered. And his paws scooped up the peeled, chopped red potatoes, and brought them to the faded-silver pan on the stove, where he dumped them in, and they hissed a bit as they came into contact with the heat. And he stirred all of it with the spatula, getting the butter and onions to coat the potatoes.

Rhine went to the sink, where she placed a forty-nine ounce can of broth. And she punctured the top with a can opener. And then turned the can around. And made another puncture on the other side (to allow air in, making for easier pouring). And, reaching for a clear, glass measuring cup, she poured two cups of the broth. And carried it over to the stove, where Orinoco was still stirring. And she poured the liquid into the pan. The sizzle-simmer sounds stopped, and the butter-onion-potato mixture began to float. And she turned the heat back up, this time to the higher setting.

"Now, what?" Orinoco whispered, swallowing. His breath baited.

"Now," Rhine said, "we turn up the heat ... " Her heart pounded. " ... and, uh, wait about twenty minutes," she said, "for the potatoes to get tender enough. Then we blend it all, and then we have our soup. And, uh ... the celery and carrots and bread will only take a few minutes to get ready, so I'm not gonna worry about those," she whispered, "yet." Her paws were literally trembling, now. It was funny, almost, she thought to herself. How, in the course of an ordinary activity or an ordinary moment, like making soup, you could silently work yourself into a pulsing, sexual need. Into a romantic dervish. But she wasn't complaining, mind. No, she wasn't.

They began to brush into each other.

She didn't stop his paws from holding to her hips, from guiding her, shuffling her back, back, away from the stove. Her own paws went to his sides, arms slipping around his back. They became a slow-moving tangle of limbs, two otters in a warm, winter kitchen, and they came to a stop against the table. Both of them still dressed, paws fumbling with clothing.

"What do, uh ... what do we do," Orinoco whispered, sounding cutely desperate. He'd lifted her dress enough to get his paws up her back. Unbuckling her bra.

"Uh ... well, you, uh ... you know I'm fine with you taking the lead," was what she managed to say. Rhine wasn't a rough-and-tumble femme. She was like a water lily. And her husband wasn't a male mouse, or a rodent. He was a male otter. Strong. Handsome. The outdoor type. And she, herself, was strong, too. Her faith was strong, and her personality. But she wasn't a dominant, controlling sort. She was very content to let Orinoco control the tempo and style of their love-making. When his tempo got messed up, or when she wanted to do it in a different position than he did, she'd gently tell him, in whispers. And he would accommodate her. He always accommodated her.

"I know," was his eventual response. "I know you are, but ... what I'm, uh ... the table?" he asked. Her bra undone, he withdrew his paws. The bra staying in place, but much looser.

"Oh," she went. He was asking where they should do it at. "Oh, table ... uh ... counter?" she said. Their kitchen table didn't have legs around the edges. It was a wooden oval, with a big stand in the center. "If I sit on the edge of the table, it ... it'll tip," she said. "The counter won't." She'd just finished unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, but hadn't gotten around to tugging them down yet.

"Good thinking," he breathed.

A slight giggle as her husband picked her up. She made a light, airy squeal of delight. "Well ... well, I'm gonna be past the point of rational thought," she predicted, "in just a moment here." She could already feel her body overpowering her mind.

Orinoco just gave an otter-murr as he set her down on the kitchen counter, near the sink, and in front of the toaster.

Rhine, her breath quickening, her heart hammering in her breast, scooted herself, perching on the counter's edge. "I, uh ... my dress," she whispered.

"You want it, uh ... off," Orinoco panted, in a whisper, "or, uh ... lifted ... "

"I better take it off," she whispered. "Come to think of it ... " She glanced over at the stove. "Uh ... darling, take the pan off the burner. Turn the burner off."

Orinoco nodded, doing as told, and then padding back to her, paws slipping under the skirt of her dress, rubbing her soft, furry thighs. "We delaying supper, then?"

"Soup can ... be cooked later. I ... I'd rather do this in bed," she whispered, eyes meeting his. From so close. With such love and familiarity, born of their devotion, their shared faith. Born of God's grace. "Don't you think ... ?"

A nod. Another nod. "Yeah, I ... bed," he whispered. "Take our time ... "

"Orinoco ... "

"Yeah, darling?" He caressed her thighs some more. He could feel the heat coming from between her legs. And could hear her sighs.

"Carry me to the bedroom," she asked, gently, smiling shyly, noticing the growing bulge in his white briefs, which she could see through the unbuttoned, unzipped top of his pants. She fought the urge to grab at that.

A chuckle, and a smile. "Sure thing, darling. Up," he said, lifting her from the counter, holding her in his arms, "you go."

An otter-bark of amusement, her bare foot-paws hanging in the air, toes wriggling, and her rudder-tail trailing beneath her, thick and sturdy, covered with soft, velvety-brown fur.

And he carried her away, romantically, to the bedroom. Their soup set aside. They would heat it later. For what a divine, pleasurable hunger this was! It superceded any actual food.

Right now, they would heat their bodies, simmer their minds, melt their hearts. Right now, they would dine on each other.