The way to a man's heart is food, they say

Searing, frying, sautéing,
wiping sweat off my forehead,
crying because of onions
the things I do for a boy.
I hope he likes it.
The doorbell rings.
The door opens, he stands with a bouquet in his hands.
He lifts his head and sniffs the air.
“It smells like my mom's house,” he says.
My body melts, my heart calms.
We laugh, we eat, plates clean, us stuffed.
He sits back and looks into my eyes with such endearment and love.
The way to a man's heart is food, they say.