Artichoke Hearts

“So – what would you like for dinner? I’m about to run to the grocery store; I can make you anything you want.”

She thought for a moment, eyes shifting up and to the left, before returning his gaze and responding:

“Again? I really want to cook for you today, so – anything. Brussel sprouts and baked chicken? Avocado salad? Lasagna and crusty garlic bread? Grilled salmon with white wine? Panang curry?”

She smiled. “I’m a simple gal, and artichoke hearts are tasty and good for you!”

“Better than breakfast for dinner?” he pressed. “I make a mean waffle with berry compote and hand whipped cream…”

She thought again. “Artichokes.”

“Or healthy! I could do a sprout bowl, with a mix of quinoa and brown rice, edamame, bean sprouts, radish rosettes, and carrot shavings with a light green goddess dressing.”

“Artichokes.”

“What about – “

“Artichokes.”

Deep sigh. “Fine. I will get you your fucking artichoke hearts.”

“Thank you!”

“I hate you.”

She giggled; not realizing that he was not making a joke but merely being honest. That dating a chef without expanding her palette would prove not merely unwise, but deadly. That it is relatively easy to slip poison into a dish, and that an emasculated significant other whose livelihood depends on other people partaking in and enjoying his dishes who has spent the last 365 days cooking a rather pedestrian vegetable as a meal might be adequately tempted to add an extra, lethal ingredient.

He continued watching her with large eyes after setting her plate before her, and she was trying to figure out the likelihood that a diamond ring had been delicately folded into her meal as she ate with small, delicate bites. Each piece of artichoke heart was chewed 32 times, ensuring adequate digestion, and that this digestion was only occurring for food.

She was halfway through her dish, chewing thoroughly, concentrating intensely, when enough poison had been released into her system, and she sank into the remainder of her dinner.

He poured a glass of wine, which he then lifted in a gleeful, macabre toast. “Live like a toddler, eat like a toddler, die like a toddler.” The wine glided down his throat in one long, rich, smooth gulp, after which he gave a deep sigh, and then stood up from the table. Although he had been rather naughty and already had his dessert, it was time to make dinner.

Written in response to M’s July 2019 Writing Prompt.

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