Dining alone

What he wanted wasn't exactly on the menu...

Sorry for the two-month hiatus - no good excuse, life happened. I also have exciting news, which I hope to share in the next month or two. But to whet your appetite, here’s a culinary horror short…

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Dining alone on the balcony, your glass in my hand, fire red lipstick on the rim. Your pearls coil in my pocket, so recently snapped.

I made carbonara tonight. Bet you wouldn’t like the sauce, too creamy, too cloying. Give you spice, bitter, acid.

I’ve gorged on the pasta, already consumed enough for two. I love the way you ate, ravenous but chewing slowly, savouring everything.

Your glass is half filled, letting the liquid breathe. I can still trace your lip marks, imagine the cloud of your breath as I lift the glass up, toast your ghost.

What would you say if you here? Would you criticize the mismatched cutlery, the slight chip in the blue Ikea plate? I like to think you’d have better, worthier things to talk about. You’re a girl with opinions, but how much would you share?

It’s why I had to take from you.

Our first touch was unconscious. Heralded by the snapping of string, fiddled with too long, perhaps, your necklace broke, pearls flying every direction. By luck, one rolled its way over to my table. The pinch of it between finger and thumb was enough to snare me. Your sigh, resigned, tinged with loss at something precious, clinched the deal.

It took till the dessert menu for me to gather the courage to look your way, but before I could make my move, you were already gone. Perhaps it was for the best. You’re better in pieces, gradually gathered.

So tonight, I dined out again, an extravagance I can ill afford. To my delighted surprise, there you were at the table opposite, the back of your head filling my world. Dark hair, curly, worn long, bleeding into dark clothes. It pains me to say I can’t recall the details. Only the lingering red of your lipstick, staining the wine glass.

This second taking was more challenging than the first. I had to wait for your new date to excuse himself, for you to be busy with your handbag, to slip my arm across the gap between us and snatch, replacing the empty glass with my own. Poor distracted you didn’t notice the switch, your returned date soon refilling the new vessel with house red. I slipped the stolen glass into my jacket pocket, catching a waiter’s eye for the bill. He whisked away my half-pecked chicken salad, the leaves that seemed to be slowly wilting under the audacity of my actions. Now I sit at midnight, bloated on a belly of homemade pasta, waiting to taste what I’ve truly longed for.

I lift your glass to my lips. You’re sweet, darling, but somehow bitter. I drain you all.

In the midnight, my arms are strangely cold. I button my jacket, trying to hold body heat in. A shadow passes over the light from my kitchen window, and an odd bitterness spreads down my throat.

My gut clenches. I gag, trying to retch, but nothing is coming. My fingers clutch tight around the stem of the wineglass, as if it might save me. Your lipstick stain smiles back, darker now, almost bloody.

Because you’re here darling, dabbing away at the poison on your painted mouth with a napkin. You left the glass for me in that restaurant, knowing I couldn’t resist. Perhaps you even snapped the pearls on purpose, nudged them with your foot in my direction. And now here you are, lurking in shadows, watching the wine glass slipping through my fingers and rolling just out of reach. The stolen pearls spill from my pocket, scattering in all directions as I sink to the balcony floor.

You stand over me; my dearest, my angel of death, my downfall. The last thing I see is your lips slightly open. As if about to kiss.

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