My house, my rules. That’s what I’ve always said, until the day you accepted my dinner invitation. You spun the dice, flipped the cards and changed the rules.
You caught me in the gait of my galley kitchen as I reached and bent for plates and bowls. You stretched around me to turn taps and hob dials, pinning me to you, in the cage of your arms and the press of your body.
I tried to resist, concentrate and cook but I melted and slid as the butter in the pan, coloured and softened as the squash on the menu.