Boredom
A series of short pieces by Ms Alisha
He was bored - but it was a new kind of boredom. He was
currently basking in the sunshine, which streamed through the tall glass windows of the
Grange. A flute of rather nice bubbly sat before him, casting a golden shadow on to the
crisp, white linen tablecloth.
He still wasn't sure why he was there, but he was. And so, he decided, this was what
decadence was....
He'd lied to her that morning, citing a long day ahead, when she'd asked if she could
accompany him to lunch. It wasn't as if he'd consciously done so - he had planned to work
all day. events had just unfolded in such a way that he'd become free for lunch.
He cast his eye over the menu, his mind wandering between the possible delights it
contained. He was wearing a new white shirt, which ruled out the paella - and especially
the tagliatelli. The minute steak was tempting - he didn't get a lot of red meat at home,
but he wasn't dreadfully wrapped in Dijon mustard. He wasn't even tempted by the Fillets
en Bernaise - an episode of "Blackadder Goes Forth" had robbed him of even the
desire to try it. The image of "two dog turds in glue" always came to mind....
He settled on a safe option - Muslim Duck Curry. It'd been a while since he'd had either
duck or curry, and the idea of a really good "Wee Ruby Murray" was too much to
resist.
The last of the champers slid easily between his lips, as he watched the chef's deft
movements over the rim of his glass. It was an open kitchen, and the flare of the gas
flames was refracted by the burnished copper pots that hung about its edge.
His duck arrived, the silent waitress startling him from his reverie. A deep white plate
held half a duckling, over which a rich, gray sauce had been carefully laid. The smell of
coconut milk, cardamom and coriander steamed from it. He found the duck perfectly cooked,
the fat seared away in a hot pan, leaving the skin crisp, and the flesh tender.
He was glad that he'd declined the salad - the plain jasmine rice, which accompanied the
dish, was an excellent counterpoint to its richness.
Despite his hunger, he ate the meal slowly, luxuriating in the almost sinful feeling of
dining alone.
A second glass of bubbly replaced the empty one before him, adding to the warmth he felt
from the sun's sweet light.
The silent waitress brought over the dessert menu, and without hesitating, he ordered the
Chocolate Buttermilk Cake. He remembered the first time he'd tried it here. He'd taken
Alisha for a spot of supper, after a night at the theatre.
The cake was as dark as midnight, and dusted with a galaxy of icing sugar - but it was the
accompanying cream that held his mind. King Island Double Cream - as yellow and thick as
soft butter - enough to clog arteries at a glance. Add a smooth cone of light, milk
chocolate ice cream, and, he recalled, you got a perfect dessert. If Alisha didn't polish
it all off for you....
He felt guilty at eating like this without her - but he needed a little time to himself.
Since they'd moved out of his apartment and into a quiet little house in the suburbs, he'd
felt a little trapped. Before, he could wander down the road to his local pub - now it was
a long walk even to catch the bus to work.
They just seemed to be living closer together - even though the house was easily double
the size of the apartment. He really couldn't explain why - and wasn't sure he wanted to.
With her support, he'd left the P.R. firm he'd been working for, and set up on his own.
He'd taken with him a loyal core of clients, and, as word had spread, his business had
grown. Soon he'd had enough work for him to take on an assistant - although he still
stayed in personal contact with all his contacts.
Which was something he really should be doing now. He rose, left a generous tip, and went
back to work....
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