hadn"t even occurred to me to think of other creature comforts. Now that I had begun to defrost, my body had time to remember other things, like food. I grimaced. There had to be a can of soup in my pantry, at least. Maybe some cereal?
Before I could get my key in the lock, the door opened of its own accord. I followed its momentum inwards, doing a very undignified stumble as someone grabbed my shoulders to keep me from going flying.
Burglars?
No. Boyfriend.
“What are you doing here?” I gasped, like any good Gothic heroine, blinking in the bright light of my foyer. Wincing, I touched my tongue to the top of my palate. I hat bitten it when I fell. Hard. I scowled at Colin. “Shouldn"t you be in Sussex?”
“I decided I would rather be here?” he said. I must have looked pretty fearsome, red-nosed, teary-eyed and scowling. Not exactly a picture to cherish in one"s heart during one"s days apart. He added, in the tone of one dangling some nice red meat in front of an angry lion, “I brought us some take away.”
Stepping back, he made room for me to squeeze past, out of the tiny corridor that doubled as both foyer and kitchenette and into my main living space, a rectangle of a room with a small round table, two twin beds pushed together to make a double, a wobbly desk, and very little else. A travel alarm clock balanced on the suitcase that doubled as a night table.
He had set out two plates on the scarred plastic tablecloth, two sets of cutlery, two wine glasses. A bottle of Greek red was open and “breathing”, and the take out containers stood open in the center of the table. The curry had obviously cooled sometime ago, but I could feel the cockles of my heart warming, like an English muffin in the toaster oven.
“You didn"t have to wait for me,” I said, going all gooey. “You should have eaten.”
Wow. A surprise return to my side; wine; and untouched food. He was clearly going for a Boyfriend of the Year award.
“I didn"t think you would be that long,” said Colin practically. Fair enough. As I shrugged out of my coat and scarf—fortunately, it was the scarf he had given me—he asked, “Is the BL
open that late?”
“I wasn"t at the BL. I went to… a museum.” Call me silly, but I was reluctant to admit to having tracked his decedents to Uppington Hall. “It took me a while to get home. The Tube was acting up again.”
Fortunately, Colin was concerned with more important matters. He prodded the chicken tikka masala with a fork. “It may need a little….”
“Microwave,” I said definitively, sweeping the container out from under his fork and bustling it off to the foyer/kitchen.
Colin followed along behind, plonking the second container down on the counter. While I rummaged for microwave safe bowls to dump the food into for heating, he roamed back into the bedroom. The remote control clicked and a voice announced more snowfall in the north before it was abruptly replaced by another voice, speaking in hushed and reverent tones about a snooker shot. Oh dear, not the snooker. Fortunately, the channel flipped again. The strident voice of Bart Simpson could be heard in the next room.
Upending the first carton and scraping the sides with a spoon, I reflected on how amazingly stereotypical it all was, me fidgeting with the microwave, Colin playing with the television.
Funny, how quickly you can go from those breathless early stages of dating to placid domesticity.
I grinned to myself as I stowed the first bowl in the microwave and set the machine in motion. Well, maybe not quite that placid.
“What made you decide to skip the Sussex thingy?” I called from the kitchen as our chicken tikka spat and sizzled.
Colin wandered into the doorway, one eye on the revolving plate that held his dinner. “I wanted to spend the time with you.”
This admirable sentiment was marred by the unrepentant shriek of the microwave, which cared not for such petty human affairs.
“How sweet,” I said,
Before I could get my key in the lock, the door opened of its own accord. I followed its momentum inwards, doing a very undignified stumble as someone grabbed my shoulders to keep me from going flying.
Burglars?
No. Boyfriend.
“What are you doing here?” I gasped, like any good Gothic heroine, blinking in the bright light of my foyer. Wincing, I touched my tongue to the top of my palate. I hat bitten it when I fell. Hard. I scowled at Colin. “Shouldn"t you be in Sussex?”
“I decided I would rather be here?” he said. I must have looked pretty fearsome, red-nosed, teary-eyed and scowling. Not exactly a picture to cherish in one"s heart during one"s days apart. He added, in the tone of one dangling some nice red meat in front of an angry lion, “I brought us some take away.”
Stepping back, he made room for me to squeeze past, out of the tiny corridor that doubled as both foyer and kitchenette and into my main living space, a rectangle of a room with a small round table, two twin beds pushed together to make a double, a wobbly desk, and very little else. A travel alarm clock balanced on the suitcase that doubled as a night table.
He had set out two plates on the scarred plastic tablecloth, two sets of cutlery, two wine glasses. A bottle of Greek red was open and “breathing”, and the take out containers stood open in the center of the table. The curry had obviously cooled sometime ago, but I could feel the cockles of my heart warming, like an English muffin in the toaster oven.
“You didn"t have to wait for me,” I said, going all gooey. “You should have eaten.”
Wow. A surprise return to my side; wine; and untouched food. He was clearly going for a Boyfriend of the Year award.
“I didn"t think you would be that long,” said Colin practically. Fair enough. As I shrugged out of my coat and scarf—fortunately, it was the scarf he had given me—he asked, “Is the BL
open that late?”
“I wasn"t at the BL. I went to… a museum.” Call me silly, but I was reluctant to admit to having tracked his decedents to Uppington Hall. “It took me a while to get home. The Tube was acting up again.”
Fortunately, Colin was concerned with more important matters. He prodded the chicken tikka masala with a fork. “It may need a little….”
“Microwave,” I said definitively, sweeping the container out from under his fork and bustling it off to the foyer/kitchen.
Colin followed along behind, plonking the second container down on the counter. While I rummaged for microwave safe bowls to dump the food into for heating, he roamed back into the bedroom. The remote control clicked and a voice announced more snowfall in the north before it was abruptly replaced by another voice, speaking in hushed and reverent tones about a snooker shot. Oh dear, not the snooker. Fortunately, the channel flipped again. The strident voice of Bart Simpson could be heard in the next room.
Upending the first carton and scraping the sides with a spoon, I reflected on how amazingly stereotypical it all was, me fidgeting with the microwave, Colin playing with the television.
Funny, how quickly you can go from those breathless early stages of dating to placid domesticity.
I grinned to myself as I stowed the first bowl in the microwave and set the machine in motion. Well, maybe not quite that placid.
“What made you decide to skip the Sussex thingy?” I called from the kitchen as our chicken tikka spat and sizzled.
Colin wandered into the doorway, one eye on the revolving plate that held his dinner. “I wanted to spend the time with you.”
This admirable sentiment was marred by the unrepentant shriek of the microwave, which cared not for such petty human affairs.
“How sweet,” I said,
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