I don’t think it’s possible to love someone the way I love you. With all the messes we made through the years, with all the uncooked pasta left in one of our cupboards.
I could never imagine myself being a housewife. I could never imagine myself being a mother, a lover, something more and different. But cooking and sleeping on the kitchen floors with you made me realize I can be so much more with you.
And that’s scary. The scariest thing for a woman like me is to be more of a woman. To be gracious, to be typical, to love a man like it’s the end of the world. And in a matter of fact it is. It is the end of the world the way we didn’t expect it.
You bring the worst in me. You bring the best in me. A housewife with the perfect casserole, making the perfect musaka and drinking red wine. Wearing white pearls and the darkest of stockings. With a headscarf in all the colors possible and a nightgown that looks more like a dress than a gown anyways.
Making pasta in the kitchen in July is my favorite thing. I dread to say it. I dread to admit it every single time but truth is – I am the housewife you want me to be. With the perfect smile and kids in school, an artist and a woman.
It’s scary to admit that for a career woman. It’s scary to tell you how much I lick my lips wishing you were on the kitchen floor making pasta with me. Staring at my black hair the only way you can.
I am having a heart attack. I can’t breathe. I take a deep breath and I don’t slow down. I am facing the tailbone pain to tell you all of this.
Don’t think of me as courageous. I am not. I am just a woman and that is enough. It has always been enough. It has never been different. And it’s never going to be.
Looking you deep in the eyes only daring as I can. Tasting what I’ve made and truth is everything I ever create with you, is worth more than actual Italian pasta. It’s love. It has always been love and it will never be different.
And it doesn’t make a less of a woman to admit it. Even if I hate myself. I’d be the perfect mother to your kids. I’d be the perfect housewife. And you are the only person I’d ever make pasta for.
You are my pasta lover. Always enough, never surplus. And that doesn’t change whether the batter is on the floor or on our sweaty bodies. I love you and nothing changes that.
Let me intertwine in your life the way you have intertwined in mine. Creating worlds that are magical without a single touch. Creating and defining my world the way no one has ever done it before.
Making love to you on black ceramic floors while they’re drenched in white. Rolling around in the mess that I have made out of you. Feeling your love next to the oven. Smilling.
I am a woman and I can do this. I can love a man without defining myself. I can love you without being afraid. And you are the only person in the world I would ever love.
Your life is a recipe for my disaster. And that’s all I ever need.