Blind Carnival

Veggies and Words

John is ruffling parsley. And no, it's not a euphemism. He's holding a bunch of parsley and giving it a gentle shake, presumably trying to see if it's fresh. The two of them came in the shop, he picked up a wire basket, and they headed to the vegetables.

"What do you think?" he asks gleefully, shoving the parsley under her nose.

She giggles. He looks so chuffed!

"You're the one cooking here. I can't tell parsley from cilantro. Well, I could when I was writing about it, but then I sort of deleted it."

He's moved to handpicking cherry tomatoes and throws her a curious look.

"So, once you are done with a certain book, you forget all the research?"

"Not all of it."

She's twirling what she thinks is an okra in her hands.

"If it's especially interesting, it stays. Or something that can be used in other books. Like names for sex positions, or fashion of a certain period. Like the mascled armour of the eleventh century British military, or something."

"Mascled armour?"

"Well, yes. If some Duke or a Lord is having a.. um... hanky-panky with a maiden in a haystack, I need to know what she unclasps, and such."

She laughs, he's smiling at her widely.

"Hanky-panky, Olivia? I thought you were an erotica writer."

"Alright, how's coming together?" she offers, widening her eyes dramatically. "Claiming her body? Uniting in flesh? Possessing her lily? Piercing her sweetness with his flesh sword?"

He bursts into guffaws and moves to cucumbers, shaking his head. He then picks an English and swings it in the air, in a quite good impersonation of a croisé. And yes, she does keep fencing terms stashed in her memory. And yes, he's so fit at this moment, if it were one of her novels, she would jump his bones right here, right now. She gives it a thought, and then reminds herself that the two of them have agreed on 'conducting bedroom experiments together for an indefinite period of time,' as he put it, which she assumes sort of means they're dating. So she puts down the funny green vegetable she was fidgeting with, grabs the jumper on his chest, and pulls him to her lips.

He wraps one arm around her waist, the cucumber still in his other hand, and snogs all sense out of her. She hears a disapproving cough from a respectable looking elderly lady - of course, there just has to be one lurking around when one is playing tonsil hockey with one's super hot boyfriend - and he releases her. Well, that's how she always writes it. In reality it has little result, because for the two of them to separate, there has to be 'mutual release' so to say. She, meanwhile, is still hanging on him, her arms tightly wrapped around his neck. He's bent, probably uncomfortably, burdened with the basket and armed with a giant cucumber. And she doesn't mean the vegetable. Damn it, his puns are indeed contagious.

"What else do we need?" she asks.

He's gawking at her. He once again has this 'owl in the morning' look on his face that convinced her to give him a chance that very first time in the pub. He clears his throat loudly.

"Pasta. And ricotta. I have the rest. How's chicken with leeks and peas sound?"

"Mouth-watering," she purrs suggestively.

He gives her an adorably dazed grin. God, the man is just a wonder.

***

They shop, snog, and receive judgemental looks. Basically, it's one of the best evenings she's had in years. There's a touching moment when he asks if he can add white wine in the chicken. He's clearly worried since she's intolerant. She thinks he's wonderful. She reassures him wine doesn't affect her if it's cooked. They have a cute talk about allergies, and who can't stand what, and altogether it's nauseatingly sweet.