Sound the alarm on my holy hill!

Where have you BEEN?  Oh, that's right.
In my heart.

I don't have television.  Perhaps you've tweezed that nugget of information from between the lines of my prose here.  Going to the gym is the only time I see contemporary broadcast programming.  I have the Netflix, and I love her so, but she's a bit behind the times, which appeases my inner Luddite.  Well, until I finish season two of Downton Abbey.  Then I'll be creeping in my neighbor's bushes, watching through the windows.

So, there I am on the elliptical, just up in the gym working on my fitness, when what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Oh my God.  My pace slows, but my heart rate quickens dramatically.  Can it be?  I slump against those awkward elliptical arms, straining my neck and squinting my eyes to see the television.  I'm probably panting by this point.  No.  They're focusing on Bourdain.  Out of the way, Tony!  Stop yakking about nonna's cooking!  Perhaps it's just a trick of my overworked brain.  I'm suffering from delusions, I'm hallucinating right here in the....

Yes.

YES.

She was here.  My Nigella.  Nigella, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Nigh-gel-la: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Nigh.  Gel.  La.

A mere forty-five minutes earlier, I had drug myself to the gym, fully planning on dogging it and feeling guilty about it during my off day tomorrow.  Then there was her.

The Taste.  Whatever.  Give me Nigella and you can name that show whatever you want.  I could hear her breathy voice, her lilting accent, wafting right off the closed captioning and into my soul.

I was a transformed man.  There will be no shame tomorrow.  Only joy.  The joy of once again stealing a glimpse of my Nigella.