You give me reasons and I list them on Post-It notes. I connect them, one under the other, into a long yellow ribbon and garland the gray walls of my kitchen. Short-Handed, Restaurant Booked, Chef Trouble, Food Inventory.

You can tell how much a steak weighs by holding it in your hand. You check it on the grill by touching the middle and know when it?s medium rare. Our last meal was ribeyes, potatoes Lyonnaise, creamed spinach, warm gingerbread for dessert, delicious but every bit has passed through my system. I want more food; I haven?t eaten in two days and the feeling is at first clean, then empty. I guzzle plastic tumblers of water, one after the other, and they rush through; I am a sieve, leaky. Anticipation is a diet.

When you call I add a note ? Come By ? and I stay awake until 2 a.m., pull on my scarf, gloves, snow boots and walk the icy half-mile to your restaurant. Under my heavy coat I give you my new soft red wool sweater. Your staff has gone home. You cook for me and I want to throw my arms around your knees while you make breakfast at the stove. Eggs over easy, crisp bacon you flatten under iron skillets, coffee with steamed milk. Kissing me with short-order tricks.

You send me presents and swear to me they aren?t parting gifts: sugared pecans baked in your salamander, whisper-dry champagne. A tin of velvet apricots dipped in white chocolate is left at my apartment door. I nibble one and pretend it?s your ear, and sip wine, and wait for a snowy night when all of your customers dine at home.