Fiction, Melbourne, Relationship and marriage, Writing

Brent’s kitchen (short fiction)

‘Do you want a pickle on your burger?’

‘Pardon?’

‘A pickle. On your burger?’ Brent repeated.

He glanced to where Tilly was sitting, perched on a bar stool at the kitchen bench. Her hair was matted on one side, her left, the way she’d slept in his bed. She was wearing a T-shirt of his; her dress and heels strewn on the bedroom floor.

‘Um, no thanks. Just the patty. Please.’ Tilly murmured.

Brent turned back to the stove top; he pressed the burgers down with a spatula and sprang his hand back as hot oil spitted out of the pan. He checked his Fitbit. 4.45PM.

He only met her last night. Now, his mind raced with thoughts of her, fueled by a need to understand her, know her. Did she always sleep on her left side and curled into the foetal position. Did she always wake with her hair messy, eyes crusted with sleep gunk.

Last night, at the club. He saw her across the crowded room. That overdone cliche. Brent couldn’t actually believe it, rolled his eyes even as he made his way towards her. ‘Hello,’ he’d said. Idiot. Should’ve actually figured out what to say to her first. ‘I’m Brent.’ His eyes flickered to her hands. She wasn’t holding a drink. Brilliant. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘Oh, thank you. Yes, that would be lovely.’

‘What’s your poison?’

‘Sorry?’

Brent smiled as he’d said, ‘What type of drink do you want?’

After he’d bought her a third gin and tonic, he leaned in to kiss her. She was hard to read, his head was spinning. He could come out of this with a black eye or a root for the night. Luckily, her lips were full and met his with a matched desire. Brent felt even more lucky when she agreed to share a taxi. In the back seat, after they had chanted their addresses to the taxi driver and discussed whose home to first direct the driver to, Tilly took charge and said, ‘Just take us both to Mordialloc, please.’

‘Is that OK?’ she’d whispered in his ear. Blood rushed to his groin. A quiet moan was all he could muster in reply.

When they woke late morning, Brent dived on her, hungry for more. The morning turned to early afternoon, with the couple passing the minutes by alternating between sleep and sex.

Now, Brent showed off his culinary skills in the kitchen as Tilly watched, sipping peppermint tea. She held the cup with both hands, her long fingers entwined, her clear sky-blue eyes taking in his every movement. He felt the heat from her gaze. If he wasn’t so bloody hungry, he would take her right here. In his kitchen.

What the hell. The burgers can wait.

Turning off the stove, he moved towards her. Tilly’s eyes danced, lit with passion as he pulled her legs closer.

This was it. Tilly was the one.

 

Photo by Aaron Huber on Unsplash

4 thoughts on “Brent’s kitchen (short fiction)”

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