|
It was my turn to cook. There were ten of us in the “commune” and nine of us couldn't cook and I was worse.
That evening I was my usual useless self, the food wasn't bad, it wasn't burnt, it wasn't undercooked, worse, it was boring.
And he said so, he always did, he was right, but I hated it.
And this night, he said so, long and loud and often.
The food was awful and I knew it and I hated him.
I had had enough of the food and I had had enough of him.
I grabbed my plate by the rim and skimmed it just over head and it smashed on the wall behind him.
I ducked under the table as his plate skimmed over the table and smashed on the wall behind me.
|
