lunchbox

"hello stranger, have we met?" i said, as i left the chilly air at the doorstep at the end of the day.


my lunch. it sat on the table, prim and proper, like a good lunch should be, looking a little sorry that this's happened, a little fearful and completely tight-lipped for my neglect - or perhaps it was silently congratulating itself for escaping my notice when i flew out the door this morning, i can't tell.

you usually can't, with lunchboxes.

it said nothing, giving me the silent treatment. it knew what i did, because i've done it before.


"baby, darling! i missed you today; i wanted you so badly at lunchtime i wished i could come home and have you, right then. and i almost did, too."

and it was true. until i caught sight of the tantalising red petticoats of lasagna, mysterious and juicy and sinful and hot - i resisted, i swear! tore myself from the sight, i did, the wanton seductive scent of parmesan, willed myself to walk away -

then someone had a foodgasm. i turned to look - gnocchi slathered in cream sauce. rich and thick and slightly steaming - the way it gives itself, so willingly, to the pressures of the fork, the tiniest trail of cream it leaves on the lips, the way the eyes rolled back before they closed and the unabashed moan of utter pleasure -

but that lasagna - it's just a dalliance! nothing compared to what we have - the way we had it last night. i remember the way i had you, all hot and steamy, wholesome and nice - i mean, lasagna! it's hot and saucy, yes, but gawd, SO unhealthy! i couldn't have it for two days running, y'know?


...but of course i don't say that. instead, i said, "i visited the juice bar today, because you weren't there."

and i had my lunch.