The house was flooded with the burnt orange of dawn light, and Serafina swam in the warmth of it. The parsley in her hands flopped around as she danced to jazz music from the 1920’s, playing softly on the record player.

Even with the missing component of garlic, the scent of tomato sauce transported Serafina to her childhood in Italy.

She burst into the tiny kitchen to greet Satomi when the record scratched and stopped.

A pot began to spit out sauce as Satomi stood frozen over the stove, with her eyes fixed on Serafina. Satomi’s hand was still on her neck, which was inflamed and cracked. Slowly, her hand moved down to her side.

Serafina held the bouquet of parsley out and mumbled, “You’re not still craving this, are you?”

“I, uh,” Satomi stuttered, just as the pot of water began to boil over.

Satomi hurriedly removed the lid from the pot, and slowly stirred in the pasta, occasionally stealing glances of Serafina.

Finally, Serafina relaxed into a smile as she watched her wife. She imagined their child looking just like Satomi, with birthmarks in place of her eczema.

Serafina planted a kiss on Satomi’s cheek. “Our child is going to be so beautiful.”