'We should have stopped after the fish' by Sally Curtis

Amuse Bouche

Reaching for the newspaper at the same time, our fingers brushed.  You smiled. I looked away, suddenly self-conscious I preferred print to digital before realising you must feel the same.

Starter

You were waiting at the news-stand inside the mouth of the station, plastic bags, polystyrene cups and grease-smeared wrappers already amassing against the black  bricks.  You handed me my newspaper, folded ready to read.

One hand looped in the noose, I scanned the headlines.  Your phone number was scrawled across the front page.   

Soup

We shared a bottle of Shiraz, picked pasta over pizza. Neither of us had our phones on the table and we talked all evening long.  We agreed how bizarre it was that we shared so much and our only difference was your dislike of coffee.  You walked me to the taxi rank; this time it was our lips that brushed.

Fish course

On whisked-away weekends, we explored history: The Colosseum. Pompeii. Anne Frank’s house, Juliet’s balcony in Verona and, immersed in romance, we overlooked truth. You preferred a real camera, capturing perspectives with different lenses while  I sketched with different leads.  

Main course

On Sundays you cooked: it was your way of sharing the chores. That and taking out the bins.

We spent an entire month deciding on the sofa and an hour picking cushions.  They didn’t match but it was too late to take anything back.

You booked a holiday with the boys and, when you returned, you were wearing a different aftershave.   

I found your phone.  It was unlocked.

Palate cleanser

You said you were sorry.

Dessert

You spun me sugary words but beneath the glaze they were brittle and burnt and left an embittered tang.

Coffee and mints

I made it strong.