Tomato $lut 💋

This was supposed to be dinner. Juice slicks her fingers, olive oil glossing her skin like a bad decision made in good lighting. Basil crushed between red nails. Bread torn, not cut. The candle held reverently — not because she’s holy, but because it feels right. She’s barefoot without realizing it, hip against the counter, wrist resting where the pulse stays warm. The window’s cracked just enough to let the air move through her hair, lifting it, dropping it again. Everything around her feels slightly softened — edges blurred, time stretched. Earlier, she wandered the farmer’s market like it was a minor adventure. Sun on bare shoulders, net bag heavy with heirloom tomatoes still warm from the crate. Basil snapped between her fingers as she tasted, laughed, lingered too long at one stand and not long enough at another. She bought more than she needed. She always does. It felt like spring, even if it wasn’t. She didn’t mean to break a sweat, She was just slicing tomatoes. She moves throu