Ask ten questions about the person next to you and with the answers write something.
The questions used were:
- What’s your favourite smell?
- What annoys you?
- If you were to get a tattoo, what would it be of?
- What’s the most attractive dress style?
- If you had to set off a fire alarm for an event other than a fire, what would it be?
- If you got someone pregnant would you hope for a boy or a girl?
- What’s your favourite Christmas tree ornament?
- Identify this stain?
- Where are you most ticklish?
- Would you bite someone hard enough to break the skin?
I don’t exactly like the taste of hot chocolate, but I love the smell. The girl at the next table smirks at that, glancing down at her own, topped with clotted cream. The girl I had actually been talking to nods and plays with her drink. In any other place I’d understand her to be worrying about the calories, but we are in Tinderbox, and the hot chocolate is glittery here.
When I get bored of my companion’s prattle about the galaxies in her glass I start discretely glancing around the room. A strawberry’s juices have stained the napkin on her plate. It looks like Africa.
She talks. I don’t take offense at her chatter as it is never deliberately rude and never malicious. She talks. She talks. I might get her name tattooed. If that’s meaningful at all. I could overcome the pain for some meaning.
She gets up. Her sequinned dress is garish and somewhat festive. It makes me think of tinsel and baubles and inane, pretty decorations.
I can smell the remains of her sparkling hot chocolate still. That and my friend’s attire make me crave chocolate tree ornaments. I push my lunch around and imagine those chocolate reindeer.
My partner once dated a guy who bought her Lindt rabbits at Easter. He would wrap his big, soldier’s hands around it gently and press his thumb down firmly in the position of the bunny’s jugular. The chocolate rabbit should feel no pain. I could picture her sucking down on the bunny’s ears until there was nothing left but dark smears on her swollen lips.
I take one of the strawberry pieces from my companion’s plate and gaze at the girl with clotted cream on her lip. She’s attractive, dressed in a flattering forties style. My absent lover likes her hairstyle. She said so.
The breeze from the open fire exit annoys me. I am cold and harsh smoke wafts inside from inconsiderate nicotine addicts. I would only open a fire exit in an event other than a fire if it was to evacuate people from a threat. Like a murderer.
The forties pin-up girl beside me wipes her mouth delicately and continues down to dab at her throat. It’s unmarked, unlike my girlfriend’s. If I could bite this girl I would. I would go for the neck. She has such a captivating jugular.
My companion returns and sticks her finger in my side. I squirm and she desists her tickling. She moves her hand to my bicep, lingers, and then moves to her seat.
She asks if I would prefer a boy or a girl. I tell her I have no preference.