“I couldn’t wait to get to the market today to see if there were any artichokes,” I say to Seb when he calls this evening.
“And were there?” He says.
“Yes! I bought two and now I’m cooking one,” I say.
“So it’s not like that time on your birthday,” Seb says, sounding amused, “when I wouldn’t let you buy those artichokes from that expensive greengrocer because we would’ve had to carry them to the cinema and then to the restaurant and…”
“Oh I’d forgotten about that,” I say, although it’s coming back to me now. And suddenly I feel so happy that we’re building memories together. At long last, I’ve got my chap and we’re writing stories together. Our relationship has a narrative, it has its own life where we can remind each other of things-we’ve-done-together. And some of those things involve artichokes.
“What are you having for supper?” I say, chopping my mushrooms for The Omelette.
“Oh: just scrambled eggs tonight,” Seb says. “You would’ve have loved my supper last night: it was a Mexican-style egg and avocado and salsa and…”
“Yum,” I say.
“I’ll make it for you next time,” he says.
“So, um, when you’ve finished your course,” I say.
“Why don’t you come up here that weekend?” He says. “It will be hot and we can go on the beach.”
“Can’t wait, my darling,” I say.
Attached photo is the fluffy monster in the sink. He was drinking out of a saucepan there.
Happy Monday everyone!
*2014. By Marco Malvaldi. Murder mystery novel. Contains artichokes.