We Went Home for a Hookup and Started Arguing About Toasties
Fiction & entertainment
Tamsin kissed me beside her fridge, and my stomach responded with a noise no decent person would mistake for encouragement.
She pulled back.
“Have you eaten?”
“Chips. Earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“Before I met you and became distracted.”
We were both forty, had spent three hours flirting and had arrived at her flat with fairly clear intentions. Unfortunately, my body wanted cheese before anything else.
She offered food. I offered an opinion
“Toastie?” she asked.
Easy question. Sensible answer: yes, thank you.
Instead I watched her pick up the mayonnaise.
“What's that for?”
“Outside of the bread.”
“Butter goes outside.”
Tamsin turned slowly.
“You've been here eight minutes, Daniel.”
“I'm comfortable expressing myself.”
“Apparently. Make your own, then.”
She handed me bread with the generosity of someone preparing to watch a fool prove himself wrong.
We washed our hands and stood at opposite ends of a very small bench. She used two cheeses, tomato and pickles. I used one cheese and the moral certainty of a man who had never considered being challenged about a sandwich.
“Tomato makes it soggy,” I said.
“Keep talking. You're making yourself less likely to get kissed.”
I stopped talking.
Briefly.
The competition delayed the kissing
We cooked one each, then split them. Mine was good. Hers was also good, which was irritating.
“Well?” she asked.
“Nice.”
“You looked happier than nice.”
“I'm hungry.”
She took a second bite of mine.
“Very plain.”
“A large bite for something so disappointing.”
“I'm checking thoroughly.”
We stood against the bench eating. She had a crumb on her cheek. I pointed; she wiped the wrong side. I moved closer and brushed it away.
This time, when we kissed, my stomach kept its bloody opinions to itself.
Then she whispered, “Mine was better.”
“That was a cheap tactic.”
“It worked.”
We wrote scores on an old envelope. Crisp bread. Melted cheese. Would eat again. Tamsin added “How much the cook deserves another kiss”.
“Biased category,” I said.
“You're welcome to withdraw.”
I gave her full marks.
We found out why we cared about toasties
Her dad used to make them on Sundays from whatever was left in the fridge. Some combinations were brilliant. Others deserved to remain family secrets.
My mum made plain cheese toasties after a rotten day. Same plate, same generous butter, no questions until I'd eaten.
Tamsin looked at my remaining half, then at me.
“All right. I understand yours.”
“And I admit the pickles work.”
“Fuck. Significant evening for you.”
She wrote our family favourites beneath the scores, then put the envelope in a drawer. I liked that she kept it. I liked her kitchen, her quick answers and the fact that she was still standing close enough for her hip to touch mine.
I washed the pan. She dried it.
“Finished arguing?” she asked.
“For now.”
“Good. Come here.”
Two days later she invited me over again.
“Dinner's sorted,” she wrote. “I have other plans for you.”
I promised not to bring bread.
I did leave good butter in her fridge, though. Flirting was going brilliantly. The mayonnaise question remained unresolved.