“Baby.”

I picked up my sweet tea, took a long slow drink and took that as my cue to shut up about fermentation. But I let it settle too. She called me, Baby.

I wanted to hear it again. Wanted to hear it in the morning over coffee and across the dinner table when I was going too long about something nobody asked about and in the quiet middle of the night when the house was still and the world had gone somewhere else for a while. I wanted to hear it worn in the way good things got worn in, soft at the edges, certain at the center, the way a path gets made through a field just from somebody choosing the same way home over and over again.

I wondered what it would sound like when we made love.

💌