It’s a habit, cooking for two, even though you’re long gone, Edward.
But now my neighbour is sitting in your chair, waistband undone, buttons agape on his shirt, tenderly rubbing his socked toes against each other in an act of gross self-comfort.
I can imagine you hovering behind his chair, fuming, ready to snatch up his greasy fork and plunge it into his swollen belly, like pricking a sausage.
“We must do this again,” my neighbour says.
We must not.
I still miss you, Edward, but in future I’ll cook for one.
You never ate much anyway.
Spring is getting under way in Dorset, but a sudden cold snap last week sent us scurrying for covers to put over the tender seedlings and succulent plants. Winter has a defiance I should be prepared for, but I never am. Thanks to Rochelle for her leadership of Friday Fictioneers, we appreciate what you do each week.