Lily

“You bring out the best of everything--- the sweet, the sour, the bitter. You're the reason to savor things. You're the first seasoning, and the last. You're the sea. You're the stars. Life is built on salt, and I--- I want to build mine with you."
"Say it again," Maura whispered, and he thought for a moment she was teasing, but her eyes were glassy, wet.
"I love you like salt.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“I love you, Konstantin. I love you like salt. And I'm going to fix this."
Salt.
More than salt.
Morton's. Himalayan.
Sweat. Blood. Capers. Roe.
Maura.
So much more than salt.
Something shakes loose inside of him. An instinct to feed her.
He only has one memory left, enough for a single ingredient. Something salty--- he was salty in it--- all attitude. But with an undertone of regret, a dash of guilt. A longing for affection.
He recalls it--- the kitchen, the refrigerator door, the way the cold air felt along his skin--- lets it travel along his tongue--- his father and that awful tie, the kids and all of their unkindness, his own fear and shame and loneliness--- rolls it like a marble inside his mouth--- the anger that exploded from his chest, his dad's defeat, his own terrible regret--- and feels it harden, rough and textured, crystalline, saline, its nooks and crannies and hand-harvested flakes seasoned to taste, flavored by this memory--- the ache for attention, for connection, for love.
It's a subtle salt. Delicate.
Fleur de sel.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“He was deeply in love with her. Truly. Madly. A kind of love he'd never dared fathom. It hadn't happened in an instant--- a flash in the pan, quick sear, raw within--- but over time, his initial wallop of attraction so thin and bland beside the concentrated feeling that consumed him now, this love that had simmered slowly, sauce marrying over long, low heat.
Maura with the tarot, shuffling his cards, dashing his dreams, telling him to quit in a way that only drove him to think about her: the tartness of tomato, stewing over flame.
Maura in the dark, pulling down his mask, kissing him in the stairwell of that strange immersion theater: the heat of hot pepper flakes.
Maura in his bed, in his T-shirt, eating grilled cheese in the middle of the night, feeding it to him, crumbs on the comforter, her fingers in his mouth: the sweet emulsion of butter.
Maura arguing with him, one hand on her hip, pissed the hell off: basil, torn.
Maura working through a problem, her forehead furrowed, eyes in such sharp focus: the concentration of tomato paste.
Maura walking into a room, the air shifting, his eyes finding hers: garlic, caramelized.
Maura when she said his name, when she whispered it, when she traced it into his shoulder, gasped it, screamed it, held it in her mouth like a secret: pepper--- red and black and white--- grinding in a mill.
Maura in the world, living with so much life, so much yearning, so much hunger, that all he ever wanted to do was feed her, satisfy her, love her, make her feel as full as she made him: streams of salt and salt and salt.
It had all stirred together inside him until there it was--- love--- and everything else he'd ever tried just fell away, tasteless.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“Some salt gets mined out of the ground, every crystal perfect, its flavor so predictable it graces every kitchen. But other salt comes out of marshes, gets harvested by hand, tastes like the journey it took to find you, including the wrong turns. I love you more because of where I've been, and I'd stay Hungry forever if it would make you believe that loving you was never about not feeling empty. It was about the chance to feel this full.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste