Before we ordered the deep fried chili crab, my Sweetie’s cell phone buzzed taking her away from the menu to focus on a text message. “Excuse me,” chair backed away from the table, fingers tapped electronic buttons, phone pulled to ear, “I have a call to make.” Me, nervously looking from guest to guest at our large round table, shrugging an apology before immersing myself in the colourful, leather-bound menu.
Somewhere between the eggplant and the sweet garlic scallops, the same annoying text message interrupted the conversation for a moment. And again, after birthday cake, this time causing me to raise both my eyebrows and glare into my Sweetie’s distracted face.
On the drive home, shortly after dropping off one of our guests, another call. “Yes, yes,” she said. “But isn’t it too late now? No. Are you sure? Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.” Me, driving, intensely focused on the road, shiny from a recent rainfall, pretending not to listen.
“Turn left at the next block,” was my instruction. “Half way down the block, the house with the lights on. Stop there.” I pull in front of the house and someone runs over and hands Sweetie a closed container. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll call you later.” And then I drive home.
After parking and getting out of the car, Sweetie grabs my hand and pulls me around to the back deck. In the dark of night, she hands me a spoon and slowly opens the container. I furl my brow and shake my head. “Durian,” she announces, “try it. It’s too stinky to bring in the house!” We held our breath and dug into the creamy fruit. The forbidden fruit.
Somewhere between the eggplant and the sweet garlic scallops, the same annoying text message interrupted the conversation for a moment. And again, after birthday cake, this time causing me to raise both my eyebrows and glare into my Sweetie’s distracted face.
On the drive home, shortly after dropping off one of our guests, another call. “Yes, yes,” she said. “But isn’t it too late now? No. Are you sure? Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.” Me, driving, intensely focused on the road, shiny from a recent rainfall, pretending not to listen.
“Turn left at the next block,” was my instruction. “Half way down the block, the house with the lights on. Stop there.” I pull in front of the house and someone runs over and hands Sweetie a closed container. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll call you later.” And then I drive home.
After parking and getting out of the car, Sweetie grabs my hand and pulls me around to the back deck. In the dark of night, she hands me a spoon and slowly opens the container. I furl my brow and shake my head. “Durian,” she announces, “try it. It’s too stinky to bring in the house!” We held our breath and dug into the creamy fruit. The forbidden fruit.
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