You were speaking German to me, as you often do, and I wasn’t following until I heard the word, ‘popcorn’.
I sat up from my pillow with a smile, ‘Do you still want me to make it?’
‘It’s world-famous you say, so yes.’
I kissed you, got out of bed, pulled on my robe, eyed the time as 23.30, and headed to the kitchen.
After heating the oil and letting the kernels create their popping symphony, I poured the white fluffy mounds into a big bowl and tossed them with melted butter, olive oil and a healthy crank of sea salt. I tip-toed over to you and triumphantly thrust the bowl in your hands.
I watched you take your first bite.
‘Yeah, it’s popcorn…’
‘In the movies here it’s normally sweet.’
‘Do you like it?
You grab another handful. ‘Yes. It is very good.’
I climb back over you as you pass me my glass of red wine. And there we are, eating popcorn, getting butter on the sheets and laughing in bed on a rainy Wednesday night.