By Simply Shelby
The familiar sounds of clanking silverware and a knife hitting a cutting board emitted from the kitchen. A tall, slightly disheveled man stood at the counter, cooking dinner. His suit jacket had been discarded earlier, leaving him clad in inky black slacks and a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up and out of the way. He was barefoot, his feet tapping to a jaunty rhythm only he seemed to be hearing. The cook's figure was lanky and lean, like a cat; a streetwise tabby, rather than a cunning tiger. Long, tapered fingers deftly handled the knife as it cut through the vegetables. Beside him, on the stove, was a pot, the tantalizing aroma of vegetable soup wafting from it. This man often referred to as the "house husband" as opposed to a house wife, sighed contently and ran a hand through his unruly, but soft chocolate hair. He looked up from his work with sparkling cerulean eyes as is wife entered his line of vision. She walked past the neat stacks of newly folded laundry and put her arms around him and pressed a kiss on his rough, unshaven cheek, silently thanking him for his work. Though her husband's stature demanded respect, she knew he was as friendly and approachable as a kitten. Smiling in return, the "house husband" dipped a ladle into the soup and brought to his lips the flavorful taste of the vegetable soup.