Just like that “You see it wasn’t so m…

Just like that

“You see it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t procure the delectable that was recommended by the author but merely that I thought a more local flavour was desirable in this case”

Mitchell was yammering on, as he does, about his changes to the recipes in whatever celebrity chef’s cookbook it was he’d bought this week. I mean I admire the mans dedication to his latest “greatest pursuit for lifelong fulfillment” but it’s a bit hard to take him seriously when you know the piles of junk rotting away in the garage. He’d had to buy a shed summer just gone so he had somewhere to put his tools.

“And of course only the finest dark chocolate will do. But getting the colour in the shells is nigh on impossible, I don’t know how he does it.”

What sort of man keeps his tools in a shed and his work benches in the garage?  Although considering the state of the garage, it’s no bloody wonder.

“Chill. Heat slightly than snap-freeze.”

At least he keeps the house in order. For a bachelors pad at least.

“dioxode. Dried ice! Got some hellish burns though.”

Mitch isn’t bad as far as the boyfriend front goes. He cooks weird stuff and is almost obsessive compulsive about his hobbies but a man could do worse. I’ve done and dated worse. Besides, this jumping from one thing to the next seems to keep him in great shape.

“kept a few in the freezer as an experiment. I’ll tell you, never again! This batch is fresh this morning.”

And his eyes. I would swim for hours in their icy depths, a rare and piercing husky blue. More’s the pity he’s a lousy shag. All enthusiasm but no technique.

“Andrew? Are you even listening to me?”

“What? Yeah of course.” I reply, staring with some consternation at the wildly gesticulating spoon that’s been thrust in my general direction.

“Well? Are you going to tell me what you think?”

Shrugging, I open my mouth and he tips the spoonful of goliath pebbles look alikes in. The coating is just sugar with a hint of chilli, interesting combo. I bite one. A unexpectedly savoury lamb flavour overwhelms my unprepared taste buds. Spitting out my mouthful in surprise, I exclaim “they’re made of meat?!”

Mitchell’s hang-dog look tears strips “you weren’t listening at all, were you.”

It’s a statement, not a question. He crosses the floor to where I dropped my satchel as I came in the door. He holds it out to me and opens the door. I can take a hint. I grab my keys off the table, my jacket off the back of the sofa and have just taken my bag from his out stretched hand when I notice my underwear under the coffee table. His gaze follows mine.

“Take it. You’re not coming back.”

And just like that it’s over. I grab the last of my stuff and slump out to my car. I should’ve listened. One time too many. And because of that, just like that, it’s over.

The Art of Scarpering

Warning: Foul language and sexual connotations. And a fair amount of Kiwi lingo, feel free to ask for translations. ^,^

Harsh midday light, suddenly streaming onto my face. I try to roll further under the baby grand to escape but a voice, shrieking like a thousand angle grinders, demands our attention.