they crawled out of bed into the cool kitchen, soon warmed by espresso bubbling and milk foaming. she cracked eggs, whisked flour and poured buttermilk. a blueberry pancake batter sizzling on the grill. a cinnamon-brown-sugar butter to spread overtop and a tall stack of hot pancakes for brunch. they sipped and savoured while he played a british documentary on the philosophies of nietzche. a gold espresso spoon at the edge of his cup. steamy hot shower in the afternoon, the scent of cocoa butter. a poppy-hued silk top with soft cashmere. she felt as though she was cheating on her beloved neutrals with this infusion of color. from the shower to the bed to the mirror she left her hair piled wildly on the crown of her head. a few pins to tame the strands, and that was it. he said she looked french. fresh pink blush. he wore a linen scarf, tied. they walked the alleys and cobblestones of gastown, seeking a newly-opened restaurant, nicli antica pizzeria. what struck her first was the design - high industrial ceilings, a wall of exposed original brick, textured white tiles throughout and an architectural arch shaping the design. mostly white. marrying the traditional influence of italy with the sleek modernity of west coast design and the integrity of the historic gastown space. she cosied into the long grey banquette and he ordered an imported italian beer, menabrea. golden and earthy. water arrived in a recycled glass wine bottle, spotted with condensation. known for the authentic wood-fired pizzas of naples, they barely glanced at the menu. one margherita pizza, please. baked in the brick-lined oven filled with burning wood for exactly ninety seconds, emerging slightly charred. a crust, cornicione, made from '00' caputo; the sauce made from whole, peeled san marzano tomatoes; a subtle sprinkling of parmesan and sporadic mounds of fresh mozzarella, fior di latte. finished with a few whole basil leaves and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. they tore at the pie with their hands, in the traditional method of the neapolitans. the tomatoes were all at once sweet and tart, the mozzarella creamy. they poured rosemary oil onto the plate to add a fragrant, herbaceous finish. mgmt played, reminding them of their time in the mediterranean two summers ago. they talked and talked, feeling that they were sharing their lives with the most interesting person in the whole restaurant. perhaps, the whole world. on their way home, they stopped at the market, the common rhythm of picking up milk and onions. she wrote, he brewed rooibos tea. they listened to k-pop, fascinated by the korean music industry. they chopped and stirred silently in the kitchen, preparing a familiar meal. guests from germany arrived and they prepared a bed for the sleepy travelers. in their own bed, they slept so close, taking up only a small fraction of the mattress along an edge. she nearly on top of him, resting her head on his chest. embracing his arm with hers and rubbing her thumb over his skin. this is marriage.
