I was no sooner in than I saw John approach. I asked had he been hovering in wait. He asked who the red-haired guy was who’d popped out to give him dirty looks. That’d be Rodger who hates me but I doubted would know John’s to do with me.
There’d been no love-letter this week, no card till today and the bunch of flowers was minimal. I’d wanted to start cooking before he came because while he has all the time in the world for sex, once that’s out of the way, it’s rush, rush, rush out and away. We agreed he’d have time to wait for a mince with a vindaloo cooking sauce afterwards.
During, he proposed civil partnership. He’d wanted me from the moment he saw me in the library. It was just a matter of getting out of the partnership he was then in with …what’s-her-name. This had taken four years. Of prison. I’d have to change my will, I said.
Afterwards, he volunteered the food would be nearly cooked. I hadn’t started cooking yet. It was twenty to one, he said and he had to deliver a book to Beryl. I didn’t care. She’s eighty. I didn’t care about that either. What irritated me was his not keeping his word as usual, so used was he to lying, I said. He accused me of bullying. It was nagging!
I rustled up some cold trout fillet, grilled some sliced cold potatoes and washed some chicory. He wanted some of the vindaloo sauce kept. It would be long gone by next Saturday, out of spite, I said. He put some on his fish with a large spoon. “It’s a cooking sauce!” I deplored. “It’s the best hot meal I’ve had for a week,” he said. It was cold.
At the door, he proposed again. “I’m not rushing into it. I’ll think about it.” “You think about it. What do I have to do? wait until you’re eighty?” Optimist.