The Last Supper


  “Hey Linds,” I call, stirring the bolognese in front of me slowly, “could you grab me a pan of water for the spaghetti?”
  The kitchen is full of the warmth and smell of the cooking, the windows steamed up against the cool night outside. The room is lit warmly by candles and a little oil lamp Jenny and I found upstairs whilst clearing everything out.
  I hear Lindsay looking in the cupboards behind me before I feel Her presence. I’m getting acclimatised to being around Her all the time I guess. She slides into my peripherals and I stop stirring for a second, watching Her fill the saucepan at the faucets next to the stove. Regardless of how accustomed to the humidity I’ve become my breath still catches when I see Her.
  At this moment She turns to me and – catching my gaze – smiles, Her eyes narrowing into squashes of colour, the slightest glimpse of white in Her smile, Her perpetually rose-tinted cheeks. It’s all a bit too much and I refocus my attentions on the sauce, adding seasonings that were probably unnecessary just so my hands have something to do.
  I grow hotter than usual as Lindsay slides up next to me, placing the saucepan on the hob beside mine and turning it on to high. I feel movement beside me, a knocking of our arms, as Lindsay removes a ring from Her finger and then – it would weird me out if I wasn’t completely used to it – places Her hand in the pan.
  Within seconds it’s bubbling, long before the rings below turn from the dead blacks of inactivity to even the slightest of perceivable reds. She takes her hand out and wrings it nonchalantly. A drop of water lands on my forearm and it’s boiling.
  Lindsay delicately opens the pack of spaghetti we bought from the twenty-four hour convenience store on the corner earlier tonight. We’d said our goodbyes to Michelle and Raoul, who both seemed genuinely sad to see us go despite our simple status as patrons.  With the palm of Her hand She pushes the spaghetti down into the water and it bends against the bottom of the pan, it’s rigid composition fading instantly.
  We dropped Jenny off at the airport a couple of days ago, and she hugged us – actually hugged us – before boarding the plane. In just a few short days with Lindsay and I she had changed, become softer again, healed a little, perhaps. Beads of sweat were clinging to her head as she came away from Lindsay’s hug, and she whispered in my ear as she embraced me afterwards.
  “She’s kind of special, huh?”
You have no idea,” I replied, grinning. Over Jenny’s shoulder I could see Lindsay smiling too
She promised she’d come visit our new digs as soon as we were settled in.  
  We finished loading the moving van a couple of hours ago, save for a few essentials we had to have with us over this, our final night in the house. The rental truck is sat on the street now, full of our life, the life worth taking, that is, waiting for us to hit the road early tomorrow morning towards new beginnings.


~ by Joseph Blame on October 1, 2010.

One Response to “The Last Supper”

  1. Love it!

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