The Log Cabin on the Hill

The log cabin on the hill has a foosball table. Our whoops and hollers fill the room as we play, blending with the rattle of spinning rods and the crack of wooden man kicking ball. Our open beers vibrate on the edge of the table, cheering us on from the sidelines.

He builds a fire after winning. We sink into two plush armchairs, books in hand, the music of dancing flames keeping us company. A full moon hangs in the sky, watching through the window.

We dance to Frank Sinatra while we cook. I pour fusilli into bubbling sauce. He flips chicken cutlets beside me. There’s a cake in the oven; no birthday, just because. When we turn on a movie, all that remains of the fire is glowing embers.

My sweater smells of smoke weeks later, even after it’s been run through the wash. A memory is baked into the fabric, woven through the yarn.