Too Much Chilli

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A spaghetti dinner serves as a segue for introspection, and a suprising ending.

Submitted: January 15, 2013

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Submitted: January 15, 2013

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I sit on the wooden chair, hands on my lap, staring at the steam rising from the plate in front of me.
Across the table, her knife and fork rest loosely in her hands resting either side of her plate. She nods her head as she slowly chews. Clears her throat. Takes a sip of water.
"Good spaghetti" she says, "bit spicy".
I nod, continue staring at the table between us: bottle of wine, not cheap wine glasses, serviettes cutlery a rocket salad glistening with olive oil and balsamic. And of course the spaghetti. My homemade noodles, rough cut, slathered in my rich tomato sauce- plenty of basil, olives, and of course chilli.
I pick up a forkful of spaghetti and examine it- that looks like a big piece of chilli right there. I lean closer, trying to decide whether to eat it anyway or not, or if-
"did you hear me? I said that I'm really glad we could have this dinner tonight, there's been something I've been wanting to talk to you about. I...are you listening?"
I rest my hand on the table, bits of spaghetti slithering off my fork back onto my plate.
We don't go out anymore. We don't laugh or sigh like we did. It's been a while since she stayed over- hell it's been weeks since we had sex. I know where this is going.
She's said we're too comfortable with each other. But isn't that the point of a relationship? To be comfortable? I can see she's been unhappy, she's restless. She wants to be on the front line, dance all night then watch the sunrise reflected in someones eyes. She wants to suffer in someones absence. Shed tears at text messages not replied to. Make someone jealous when she smiles at that other guy then have violently passionate make up sex and reconciliation breakfasts in bed.
I'm more of a cozy fireplace nights in, companionable silence kind of guy. Home cooked meals, holding hands. Quiet. Comfortable.
All this flashes through my head as she looks at me, expecting some sort of response.
But what should I say?
Don't leave me? Should I get down on my knees and beg? God, that'd be just her thing.
The truth is we've outgrown each other.
The other truth is I'm still not ready to let her go.
I can't have this conversation yet. I have to make an excuse I have to postpone this somehow.
I stuff some spaghetti into my mouth. Beads of sweat appear on my forehead and at the corners of my eyes. My cheeks redden. That was definitely a whole chilli. Taking my plate, I stand up and walk to the kitchen, mumbling something about too much chilli.

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Several minutes later, I can hear her yelling my name, though I'm already well down the street.

"MARK! YOU CLIMBED OUT THE KITCHEN WINDOW?!? YOU'RE UNBELIEVABLE"


© Copyright 2020 Senor Tortuga. All rights reserved.

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