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Chapter 5 - Seasoned Jazz: The Ground Between Us
- Crimson Steed
- 2 days ago
- 3 min read
Kimbe will be home soon, and the last thing I need is for him to walk into a dark kitchen and an empty stove. That would make the conversation difficult.
I pulled the groceries from the bag, setting jars and vegetables across the counter. Seeatee stayed perched on the chair, tail curled neatly around him, his golden eyes watching my every move.
I reached for the skillet, letting the music hum through the kitchen—soft jazz, a mellow rhythm that made the room feel warmer, smaller, safe. The notes wrapped around me as I sliced vegetables, the knife chopping in time with the beat, the aroma of onions, bell peppers, celery, and garlic beginning to bloom.
The atmosphere was quiet but alive, a little peace after the wild day—the trucks, the crossroads, the cut locks, and the dust.
I heard the front door click, and then footsteps crossing the floor as Kimbe walked in, tie in hand, his day written in the slouch of his shoulders.
“Hey, baby,” he said, voice warm, eyes softening when they met mine.
“How was your day?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair from my face as the scent of garlic and oil filled the space between us.
He sighed, dropping his briefcase by the wall before shrugging off his jacket and placing it on the chair. “Long. One of my clients came in today completely inconsolable. Nothing I said could reach them. Everything felt… heavy.”
I gave him a small smile, letting the rhythm of the jazz and the sizzle of the pan soothe the edges of his tension. “You’re home now,” I murmur. “That’s what matters. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He moved closer, pressing a soft kiss to my temple before leaning back against the counter, his tie swinging loosely from one hand.
Seeatee’s ear twitched, and he let out a small, deliberate meow, as if to remind Kimbe who really ran the kitchen.
“He’s judging me, huh?” Kimbe chuckled.
“You’re being evaluated,” I say. “And failing.”
He laughed, and the tension in his shoulders loosened a little. A small flicker of guilt moved through me. I hadn’t told him about the crossroads—the trucks, the cut gate.
Not yet. “Not tonight.” I let the words linger for a moment, then turned my attention back to the pan.
Kimbe leaned against the counter, watching me stir the roux. “So... who are you trying to feed?” he asks, eyes brightening at the rainbow of fresh vegetables spread across the countertop.
“Just dinner,” I say, smiling, as my hands kept moving. “Nothing fancy, just… us.”
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered, warm and gentle. I felt that familiar flutter in my chest—the kind that made every day feel like a quiet promise.
“Dessert?” he asks, tilting his head toward the stove.
I grinned. “Already resting. The bourbon sauce is cooling as we speak. Thought we could indulge a little tonight.”
“Baby, is that bread pudding I smell?” He inhaled deeply, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Smells like allspice, cinnamon, and nutmeg.” You always know how to make the house smell like comfort.
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You’re just here for the food.”
He leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on my temple. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you in your element.”
The jazz played, the kitchen warm, alive, and for the moment, the world outside could wait.
“Baby, would you like some help with dinner?”
“If you’re feeling up to it, by all means, come and join me,” I say, smiling.
“Let me get out of these clothes and wash the day off. I will come back and peel the shrimp and sausage. He grinned.”
Crimson Steed is a reflective writer and contributor exploring faith, transition, womanhood, and the sacred rhythms of growth. Her work centers on spiritual insight, emotional honesty, and the quiet wisdom found in seasons of waiting and becoming. Her reflections invite readers to release shame, honor the process, and trust divine timing.
Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, or LinkedIn.
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/theobsidian.quill
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