Delectable (Sinclair Bryant)

Diesel vs Petrol

Sian woke earlier than she normally would, and far earlier than she would have liked but with a drunken stranger sleeping on her sofa in the next room, who had called her pretty, her sleep had been broken through the night.

Her stomach grumbled unceremoniously, signifying she needed to get out of bed and eat something. She pulled back the covers, revealing  her red and black checked, fleecy pyjamas and knitted blue socks. The electric heaters in her flat weren't the best so she often bundled herself up in warm clothes if she was at home.

She shuffled the grey duvet and then lay it flat, folding over the top edge 6 inches, followed by a quick fluffing up of the pillows before throwing on her purple robe that hung on the back of her door. A one-bedroom flat in the city wasn't cheap and she didn't get a lot for the money, her bedroom was quite tight, so everything had to have its place.

Sian quickly and quietly used the bathroom and then padded into the living room. It was fairly dark in there, the curtains were fully drawn but a crack of sunlight had managed to push its way through the heavy material. Her guest was still sleeping soundly, the blanket pulled right up over his shoulders, and his hand propped under his cheek. Sinclair's floppy, dirty blonde hair fell in all directions and Sian had to bite back the urge to ruffle it. That would be cruel, she thought as she let out a sigh and walked into her tiny kitchen.

The units in there were something from the 70s, cheap and a murky, sage-y green in colour. They were hideous but they were serviceable, therefore her tight-fisted landlord wouldn't change them. The oven that came with the flat was at least newer, for which the avid chef was grateful.

Sian opened her little white fridge, that sat in the corner sadly and produced from it some eggs, cheese, cream, a handful of red peppers, mushrooms, spinach and finally, the remainder of a link of chorizo that she'd eaten earlier in the week.

"Sunday morning frittata it is."

She pulled out her trusty skillet from the cupboard next to the fridge and set it down on the old beech effect countertop. Hideous.

With expert hands she made short work of preparing the veg and chorizo and then mixed the eggs, cream, and cheese for the base of the frittata; adding salt, pepper, garlic, and paprika to it in healthy measures. She hummed quietly as she did so, not rushed by the need to get it served to a hungrily awaiting customer.

In no time at all, she was placing the skillet in the oven for it to bake to perfection. She was already starving looking at it through its glass prison.

To distract herself from watching it cook, she made herself a cup of tea, with a dash of milk. Sian liked a strong cup of tea. As she sipped the boiling liquid, she rested her shoulder and head on the doorframe and watched Sinclair sleep. She wasn't sure what to do. Should she wake him? Let him sleep it out? If she did that, what if he slept all day? She herself had been known not to wake until 2 or 3 in the afternoon after a heavy night out.

Relief washed over her as she began in the kitchen again, she heard him groan and stir from his sleep. The food needed a few more minutes, which gave her enough time to toast some sourdough. She cut two thick slices, one for her and one for her guest. She may as well feed him before he left; if he could stomach it that is.

A blob of butter hit the pan on the hob and immediately it began to melt. She swirled the frying pan to smooth out the yellow liquid evenly and then lay the bread down. Patting the top of it lovingly.

"Erm," Sinclair cleared his throat as he stood at the entrance to the kitchen, head in his hand and looking rather sheepish, "I seem to have passed out on your sofa. Sorry about that. I don't suppose you have any paracetamol, do you? My head feels a bit odd."