I shook my head.

I wanted to escape the thoughts, but still absent-mindedly failed to catch my Somerset cheddar prematurely hardening over the bubbling broccoli. Irritated, I broke it apart, yet a quiver of embarrassment scratched my mind. How many moments had I been standing above the pot, imagining his hand? Its worn ridges and scratching calluses moving with lustful purpose down the side of my breast. I sighed and felt betrayed by my nipples, now hard and anticipating what had no chance of being reality.

Forcing myself to focus, I turned the burner up. I’d at least be able to sate my hunger and quiet one rebellious body part. Eyes closed, I breathed in the pungent confection, perfected from my mother’s old Wisconsin recipe. I knew its flavors as intimately as my face, having made the soup hundreds of times.

But my mind betrayed me and I was pulled away from the range, my body sliding across the wooden island. My arms were thrown forward to lie limp as the calloused hands returned. They reached inside my Sea Island cotton underwear, their dead skin scratching my hips. He took his time pulling them down and I could feel his hot breath on my thighs with every inch. My head lay in sublime submission and my heart raced with abandon. Paralyzed with pleasure, I watched bubbles of froth overflow and sizzle when they hit the flames.

The burning smell jolted me to reality and I groaned. The charred black pool would need a hefty scraping. At least it was done.

Pouring it into my Burlington lug, I selected a two-day-old Carolina sourdough and retreated to the living room and the reassurance of my Wagner slipper chair.

I’d hoped the first spoonful would anchor me with its predictability, but it tasted uncharacteristic in its blandness. My eyes slid to the kitchen and a finger to my bottom lip. I so longed to taste him opening my mouth with his fumbling tongue, with its boyish enthusiasm. The thought tasted better in my imagination than the soup in front of me ever had.

With contempt, I threw the bowl to the floor and looked about the room, irritated. Surrounded by a lifetime of discernment, how was I still so easily forsaken?