Last Meal
He watched her
flutter through the house. It annoyed him. However, once upon a time
it had endeared her to him. He used to call her his butterfly. She
fussed about in the kitchen preparing some special dish, it made him
nauseous, but once upon a time, no matter how bad it was, he'd eat it.
She had been his executive chef. Picking up his phone, he retreated
into the bathroom, locked the door securely behind him, and dialed.
The deep throaty voice on the other end sent his temperature through
the roof. His voice caught in his throat as he uttered "hello my
love." He made himself comfortable on the toilet seat. Wondering
whether he should pleasure himself, he unzipped his pants, but then
thought better of it.
Explaining that (she) was making something for him, he apologized
because he would be a little late. He professed his love for her and
hung up the phone. It irritated him that he had to pretend, he didn't
want to be late, he didn't want to miss one sweet moment with his love
from the phone.
Walking into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway staring at her, he
thought about just leaving, but he was too nice for that. Still, he
was going to be late!
Much later than he realized.
She'd picked up a new recipe. She followed it to the letter. He
watched her constantly, the look was revulsion and disgust. Sometimes,
she would sit and cry trying to figure out what she had done to deserve
such treatment. He hadn't touched her in over six months. Most
evenings he didn't even eat, claiming he'd grabbed something at the job.
That was if he even came home in time for dinner. One night he'd
forgotten to take his phone in the bathroom with him, it rang she
answered it. When she heard the deep, breathless, whisper, she hung up.
She knew he was beginning to get impatient. He couldn't even
pretend he was enjoying himself. She had to almost beg for him to stay,
telling him it would be something special, resorting to tears when he
hesitated.
He checked his watch constantly, his phone rang at least five times
within an hour. Finally she set dinner on the table, lit the candles
and called him in.
It was damn time! He had to eat fast and figure out some reason to
leave.
He had to admit the food smelled delicious. Poached salmon with a
thick creamy sauce, asparagus with honey mustard cream, and a zesty
pasta. His first forkful, and he was surprised. She sat staring at
him, and he nodded his head, indicating it was ok. If she had cooked
like this before well...
He ate every morsel. He truly enjoyed it, and said so. She poured
him a little more wine pulling up the chair closest to him. He smiled
at her, then checked his watch.
He began to feel ill, sweat beaded his brow, his arms went numb and
pain radiated through his abdomen. He tried to stand but his legs were
locked. He looked at her, she smiled.
"What's wrong dear?"
She hadn't touched her food.
"Did you think I was so stupid I wouldn't find out about your little
playmate, do you really think that I would just sit back and let you go
like that, after all these years, after half my life?" She walked
around him. "What you're feeling is the effects of the neurotoxin,
tetrodotoxin, from a dish the Japanese call fugu... Puffer Fish." She
smiled as he slid out of the chair to the floor.
"I'm so happy you enjoyed this meal, too bad it's your last."
