It beats in time with my own, as I press her chest to mine. It blushes her cheeks when she beams that puzzled smile at me as I fumble in my apron, lost in the kitchen. It pounds in her wrist when I grab it and twist it to the small of her back. It flutters as I pull the kukri from my boot and zip tie her hands to the kitchen chair.
In that woman is a heart that I love.
But soon—
Halved along the ventricular septum. Basted in butter. Flash fried with salt and pepper. Five minutes on each side in the skillet. A nice crust but still a little pink on the inside. (Just how I like it). Add fresh zucchini, avocado and baked red potatoes, seasoned—
In my stomach will be a heart that I love.
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