Luck of the Draw

Chapter 6 - Meals On Wails

Mickey had chosen a chair at the end of the table so he could stretch his leg out and scraped it chair over the hardwood as he pulled it out from the table. "Sorry."

"Don't sweat it. White's good. I like white too."

"No, I mean scraping the chair on the floor."

She came out quickly and bent down, studying the hardwood finish. "Hmmm, seems okay. Sit. I'll help you in."

The white jeans passed back and forth across his plane of view while Carly asked several questions about his likes or dislikes, returning to the kitchen, and he just said yes to everything, mesmerized by the puzzle of how she got them on . . . or off!

The table was set with a pair of candles, a breadbasket with warm chunks of dark bread, and a pair of cut glass wine goblets. He fiddled with his cutlery while he waited and then tried to get his pocket back in as she was approaching again in her impossible pants. She frowned at his manoeuvring and set down the two plates she'd carried to the table.

Mickey looked at the odd shaped piece of meat covered in a pale brown breading; it was flanked by four long strips of asparagus and a scoop of mashed sweet potato.

"You went to a lot of trouble," he said as he flipped his napkin one-handed onto his lap, launching his fork across the table. "Oops! Sorry."

"It's just as easy to cook something good as something crappy, might as well have the good."

She handed his fork back and then poured two glasses of his wine, lifted hers and offered a silent toast.

"To good neighbours." He said. The wine wasn't bad and she didn't make too much of a face. "So what am I eating exactly?"

"It's breaded pork. I asked you if you liked pork." Her face showed disappointment.

"Oh right... I just couldn't tell under the breading." He kicked himself, realizing it must have been one of the questions she asked while he was fixated on her pants.

"Hmm. Try it."

He looked at the knife and fork and tried cutting it with the fork, sliding it onto the cloth.

"Oh jeez..."

"Let me help." She came around and leaned in front of him, cutting the meat into edible portions. This time Mickey's eyes latched onto the t-shirt and wouldn't let go. "There you go, that should make it easier."

"Not much," he muttered, forcing his attention on the dinner.

"Pardon?"

"I said, I'm causing you such a fuss."

She stared at his eyes and then shrugged. "Taste it."

He did. The sensation of molten lava oozing down his throat brought him upright in the chair grasping for his wine glass.

"Don't! Not alcohol!" She held up her hand. Too late.

"Graaaaaghhhh!" His other hand came up to his throat and he cracked himself on the head with the mitt-sized plaster cast.

Carly got up, got some water from the tap, and handed it to him. He slopped most of it down and nodded with a modicum of relief, but his voice was gone and he couldn't speak. The panic showed on his face and he slurped the rest of the water.

"Have some of the potato," she said, sitting back down and cutting into her own dinner.

Several minutes later, his voice reached the squeak stage and he managed to ask how she could possibly eat hers as if it was ice cream.