Blogopera #13 - Over Dinner

This is #13 in a fictional series, to read in succession, begin with #1

Dylan piled all kinds of vegetables on the counter.

“How do you feel about a little pan fried fish and let’s see.” he said sifting through the myriad of cellophane bags, “some sautéed green beans and roasted asparagus?”

“Yum, what about all these other veggies?”

“I’ll make us a salad.”

“Why don’t you let me make the salad.” I offered.


We set about fixing dinner, me tearing bits of purple lettuce and bright green frisee into a wide wooden bowl, him trimming asparagus, slicing garlic into thin filaments and brushing olive oil over the fish. We talked while we cleaned, chopped and readied our simple feast. We tried to catch up on the background histories of where our bodies had already gone.

He talked about the rote activity of the café, how it saved him from self-imposed solitude. He spoke about the things he made, what was going on in his life when he created them. I spoke about my work, how I was fond of it, enjoyed the security but felt like I liked it just enough to keep me from doing what I really wanted to do. I told him how I wanted to write, write things people would read. It was the first time I had ever uttered aloud to another person one of my deepest yearnings.

I set the salad on the table and refilled our glasses as Dylan set down plates piled with food. We ate tomatoes dappled with green, red, yellow and purple so sweet and flavorful I didn’t think I could ever eat a store bought tomato again. We speared parchment slices of Persian cucumbers dressed with balsamic vinegar and chevre cheese. We piled mouthfuls of fish, crisp and brown opening up to the tender, milky flesh and shiny, charred asparagus and thin, tender green beans.

In between bites we talked more, closing some of the gaps, filling in certain blanks. We finished our meal and piled all of our dishes in the deep porcelain sink brimming with hot, sudsy water and left the mess for another time. We emptied the rest of the wine into our glasses and made an island of his couch, resting on either side, feet intertwined, our bellies full.

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