Can We Just...
He said please
and thank you,
complimented her hair,
her dress,
the way she'd draped a
scarf over the table lamp
to soften the light and
set the mood;
the candle on the table
and the two freesias in
a champagne flute.
She smiled, blushed,
went into the kitchen
for wine and water
(she'd only ever dated
one guy
who'd managed the magic
trick),
returned with a green
leaf salad
with cubes of feta and
goat's cheese.
He ate with one hand,
making sandwiches from
leaf and cheese,
little green tacos
dipped in balsamic,
his fingers dusted with
Parmesan.
She thought it curious
and endearing;
imagined those fingers
deftly eating her.
Her second course,
chestnut soup
made fresh with nuts
she'd picked herself,
cooked and frozen when
the rosehips
bled into the hazel
hedge.
His spoon clanked
against his teeth,
scraped across the
enamel.
His breath as her
sucked
grated like the cheddar
in the main course.
Lasagne fork scraped
across Royal Dalton
ringing against the
brace
that held his missing
tooth
like a crane lowering a
headstone,
His mouth open as his
small talk
permeates the room like
typhoid from a sewer grate,
an orgy of tomatoes and
spinach
making his adam's apple
bob.
His smile as she pushes
away her plate,
stands, closes her
eyes;
fading into confusion
and she screams
Get out. Get Out.
Get out.
His stumble as he grabs
his coat, his keys,
his Can we just...
with a string of mucus
from the corner of his
mouth
as she shuts the door.
2 comments:
Oh well done, very vivid imagery! Clever use of the word grate, twice - his eating style would certainly grate on my nerves, the best way to get to know someone before kissing them is to break bread with them :)) Ha,ha, imagine what his kiss would be like ... scary stuff :))
you are too kind, Rose. Thank you.
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