I go to an old-fashioned butcher who sells free-range organic meat. I have a huge crush on him, my butcher. He’s tall, lean, dark hair, dark eyes, light skin… he has an interesting Eastern European accent I can’t place. His white bloodstained apron becomes him. His way with the knife is inspiring. When he moves his hand in repetitive motion, slicing quickly, I am hypnotized.

We flirted a lot in the past. Then when I showed up with Jay and our baby, he suddenly turned cold toward me. I don’t blame him, he probably was a bit embarrassed that he wore his heart on his sleeve. This past weekend he’s thawed out and friendly again. His smile spices up my meat.