Finishing all but one bite, she pushes her plate to the centre of the table and says, ‘I think I’ll probably explode.’ Yet, half done with my tart, hunched against my posture, I catch her feasting with her eyes. ‘What’s it like?’ she asks, in a salivating lisp. ‘Mine was pretty rich.’ Fine, I tell her, and slide my plate towards the gape of her reply. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ she says, but the dessert fork is meagre in her hand, silent as its dainty tines are wedged into their purpose, neither of us with the will to object.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.
03/04/2014 at 06:33
Good stuff as usual!
03/04/2014 at 11:20
Thanks inkposts, I’ve been in a bit of a drought lately