Where Wolf …

Wolf

 

 

When I was five or six years old, we lived in an older home that had push-button light switches; in fact, they literally looked like 2 licorice allsorts ( the black and white ones with that snowy core of coconutty icing) had been inserted into the wall. I assume this was some ancient electrical system but to my young eye at the time it seemed the pinnacle of elegance. (Yes, I harbored faint, middle class longings for a somehow yet-to-be-disovered aristocracy even then …) Continue reading

Over Easy

Brekkie

 

The fried egg glides across the floor with all the elegance of a manta ray, arcing slightly as it gathers some fluff and subsequently slows down. The waitress quickly stoops and coaxes it back onto the plate with one  fluid movement.

Incredibly, the yolk remains intact.

“Nice one. But you’re not serving that, right? …”  her co-worker whispers from behind.

“I am.” She coaxes away the fringe from the egg’s border. “And you know what? I hope it chokes him.”

She leans on the swing door, carrying four breakfasts at a time.

A bald man who smells of cheap, spicy-sweet aftershave is watching as she approaches the table.

“Over easy. Just like yourself.” The roughness of his hand rasps on her stockinged calf, traveling slightly as she leans over him with the food.

When he laughs, she can feel the hot sourness of his breath on her cheek.

She clatters the plate down, the tell-tale egg settled in next to glistening partners of fried bacon, sausage and mushrooms. Her thumb nail is shiny with grease.

“Enjoy your breakfast.”

As she walks away, he’s still watching, ochre tongue pushing at the side of his mouth.

He listens to the material of her tight skirt swish, swish, swish against her.

She’s back in the kitchen now, heart beating like a jungle drum.

“Unreal.” The manager’s face is grim. He stares hard at her, hand at the back of his neck. “Ed is a regular. You know he just likes to kid around.”

He spreads his arms out with a shrug. “You can’t handle it? Next time you’re gone. Understand?”

She nods chewing her lip hard, eyes bright with tears.  At table seven, Ed is now whistling and raising his mug for more coffee.

© SperanzaNow

Sparks Fly Upward

I’ve recently taken to listening to internet radio in my kitchen, often late at night with a glass of wine and I am freshly astonished how music that I have literally not heard for years can immediately evoke a feeling I have left alone (or in some cases been strenuously avoiding) almost at once. Yes I know this is not profound but it’s still rattling to be transported to that exact place in time when I first experienced the hornet’s sting of unrequited love, abject, soul twisting misery and of course a ‘70s haircut. (Those last two may have been connected come to think of it …)
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Time for Tea – or is there?

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about fear lately since it’s something I manage every day in its varying forms. Many of these random thoughts may be highly ridiculous; for example, although I dearly love scallops, ever since I read about some people developing an anaphylactic reaction to them later in life the pure joy in eating these plump, succulent pillows of the sea has now been tempered a bit – I even hesitate to order them sometimes. (More often though I still do and eat the first few quickly – just in case – and then settle down to really enjoy). Other recurring fears revolve around my children, relationships past and present, money, plumbing, my own profile and oh yes that small nagging one about death (including all the spiritual and dietary considerations that I may or may not be dropping the ball on).

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