Pasta Bake - FLASH FICTION

What he says is, essentially, light hearted. That is the aim, that is the intention. Don’t tell me, he says.

I don’t want to know!

It is a joke. That is where it starts – don’t tell me who she marries. It’ll spoil things for me.

We laugh.

I’m only going to tell you the first minute of the first episode!

A protest: I don’t want to know!

There is humour somewhere in the conversation, but it is a struggle to find it. We are too focused on our feet. Beneath the table, they are tucked out of the way. Carefully, to avoid accidentally touch one another.

That is ridiculous!

An order: I don’t want to know!

The exclamation point gets lost on the way over. We see it leave his mouth, travelling with intention.

I try to make eye contact with someone else, but no one will catch me. Instead, I watch the exclamation point die before it can travel across the table. Somewhere between his mind and hers, maybe over the pasta bake? It doesn’t really matter, because it isn’t there any more – it doesn’t reach her.

Just stop.

Tell me to stop, she says. Tell me to stop one more time.

If I say something and she doesn’t stop – it will hurt my heart. It isn’t worth it to call out, he thinks.

We tuck our feet under the chairs. The chair scrapes. She has left the table.