The Last Leg

“Of course”, I tell her, “always wondering about him,” and get a quick flash of his drunken body falling to the side of the bath after the third bounce of my Perspex rolling pin against his head.

She says she’s sure he’ll be in touch one day. I agree then excuse myself to go check on the oven.

“Ready to eat?” I call from the kitchen, and she appears offering her help again. I suggest she gets the bread, plates and cutlery while I put the hot dish on the table and get the salad out of the fridge.

We sit opposite each other at the table and I start to butter my bread while Fiona picks up the large serving spoon and digs deep into the steamy dish. Some of the sauce spills onto her fingers as she puts a portion on my plate.

“Not so keen on meat anymore,” I tell her and see me bent over in the bathroom, washing splashes of blood off the tiles.

The strong scent of the cooked meat, seasonings and melted cheeses escape into the air around our noses. She says it smells really great − the flavour rich. I smile, “Mmm,” I say and pick up some salad.

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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)