The sun was warm that afternoon, and bright, Illuminating pots and pans and knives, Roasted garlic, a batch of fresh-made dough - And something else, a dish I didn't know. What's this? I asked you, pointing to a plate. Couscous, you said. Would you like a taste? Of course I would, I said. We both ignored My husband hovering at the kitchen door. My chin between your fingers loosely gripped, You gently pushed the spoon between my lips. Your innuendo wasn't lost on me; A hint of hidden sexuality. You must have known what we'd be doing soon That day you fed me couscous from the spoon.