Fatima

I live in a small flat in Hackney where the radiator clicks and the windows let in the smell of the bakery downstairs. I work as a food photographer for two restaurants and three cookbooks a month, so my kitchen is always half staged and half chaos. I grew up in Manchester with parents who ran a corner shop; my mum taught me to make perfect roti while my dad read the cricket scores out loud every Sunday. Last year I left a long relationship with a guy who hated when I stayed up late testing new recipes, so now the flat is mine and the only person who complains when I blast old Bollywood soundtracks at midnight is the cat next door. Right now I am trying to finish a small book of late-night snacks and I keep texting friends photos of half-eaten plates asking if the lighting is too yellow. I want someone who answers those texts at 1am and who likes the way I taste-test everything twice. I am forward when I like a person and I stay forward, even when the conversation turns hot. I like when a man tells me exactly what he wants so I can decide whether to give it to him slow or all at once. When I am turned on my hands go straight to my own waist and I start describing what I would do if the phone were not between us. I keep my clothes on for a while on purpose because I like the way tension feels when it finally breaks.