The Heat of the Moment
"I've spoken to all my friends and all their husbands and boyfriends do the cooking at least once a week. You never do it. What am I? Your slave?"
With those four day old words echoing in his head, he looked at the chopping board, the large knife in his right hand, and sighed. It still felt too soon. This was admitting defeat. Cooking, because he was told to. Not because he was good at it. Because he had been told to.
What to cook, though? What to cook, what to cook?
Well, there were some things which were always needed, so he could chop some onions and chillies to start with, then see what else in the fridge could be thrown in. The fridge contained various chillies; he picked the hottest ones. She didn't like those. Bitch.
Upon chopping the chillies, he went to the cupboard for the onions. None there. Not one. How could they not have onions? Onions?
Well, to Hell with it, then. Can't cook without onions.
Forlornly, he looked again at the chopping board, the large knife in his right hand, and sighed again. A great sense of despair took over his mood. His thoughts were morbid. For some reason, he wanted to do harm to himself. So then she'd appreciate him, when we wasn't there anymore. Or, felt like she came to losing him.
He quickly realised how stupid that was.
He looked again at the chopping board, the cut chillies about to go to waste. He left the the kitchen, and returned moments later, with her vibrator.
submitted at 12:03pm
3 July 2008