bang bang.

the intoxicating, exciting perfume of cardamon and cloves swirled about me on an afternoon stolen off responsibility, in a kitchen where two pots of soup bubbled merrily on the stove.

i'd hated to smell like my food back when i lived with my family. i was far too young and unlearned to appreciate this warmth but now, seated amidst this stew-breeze on a november summer day, i watched the cooking of jordanian fare, wanting it to be done, not really wanting it to conclude.

"bang bang," she on the radio sang.

"I was five and he was six
We rode on horses made of sticks
He wore black and I wore white
He would always win the fight"

the stew bubbled on, rice was put beneath the tap, washed, drained.

"Bang bang
He shot me down, bang bang"

the cucumber was diced, as was the tomato. bell pepper. a dash of salt, fresh cilantro.

"I hit the ground , bang bang
That awful sound, bang bang"

a lemon, cut in half, was squeezed into the bowl. i stole some more cucumber, grinned back at a glowering housemate, unrepentant.

my housemate waved his knife and glowered some more, my grin grew wider. my partner in crime, who stood beside me, laughed.

"bang bang!" i said.

"My baby shot me down," sang she on the radio.