She licks the drop off her fingertip with childish delight

“I’m hungry,” says Natasha.“Me too,” I say. “But we’re out of bread.” “Then, we must have cake.”“How about Tart Tatin? It’s a French recipe. I learned it from you, years ago.”“Yes,” she says. “Tart Tatin.”“I see you like the sound of it.”“I do.”In recent years I have served not only as the father to our son, Ben, but also as the mother, because my wife has become increasingly absent-minded. Of all the new tasks I have learned, the one I like most is baking.So I get up to my feet, give her a hand, and together we go to the kitchen. I squeeze some juice from a lemon and have her add a few heaping spoons of sugar into it. Then I bring the mixture to a boil till the syrup turns thick and dark, like amber. I tell her to unwrap a stick of butter, which I add to the mixture. Then I pour it into the bottom of a ceramic pie dish.Natasha leans forward, taking in the aroma. She finds a spot where the syrup has dripped onto the table. “Sticky!” she says, and licks the drop off her fingertip with childish delight.I peel a couple of apples, cut them, and have her arrange the slices in a circular pattern around the dish, right over the syrup. “Fit them closer together,” I tell her. “Yes, just so.”When she is done, her arrangement looks quite messy. I cannot help thinking how flawlessly she used to do it, years ago. No matter. Perfection is overrated. 
Lenny in Marriage before Death

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