I carefully lifted the wooden spoon out of the pot, bringing it to my lips to blow on it, cooling it as her head still rested on my shoulder. The steam still rose from the sauce on the spoon, but it was cool enough to taste. Carefully I shifted my arm, only viewing this complicated ballet of spoon to mouth from the corner of my eye. I caught a glimpse of her smirk, and maybe then, I wasn’t surprised to feel a dribble of warm sauce on my shoulder.

“Tsk tsk tsk!” she loudly exclaimed, pulling away from me, my head now able to turn, my neck able to twist, enough to see the twin blobs of sauce now sinking into my shirt.

I sighed, I think, as I really liked this shirt (cooking pasta and sauce in it, I should have expected some amount of mess - I do not wear an apron) and it pained me to have to 1) take it off, and 2) quickly pre-treat it.

Swiss Miss’ eyes were on me, large, lucid, cat-like, as I placed the spoon on the counter, picking up the towel, placing it under the faucet and dabbing at the stain. I adjusted the flames on the stove - barely a whisper of a flame left underneath both the sauce and the pasta. She followed me - eyes, footsteps - into the bedroom where I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt, carefully taking it off my shoulders. She sat on the edge of the bed as I walked around it to the closet, bending forward to pick up the detergent next to the laundry basket.

“Mmmm,” she sounded, pointing at my undershirt. Yes, the sauce had stained through both shirts. “Take it off,” she said...