“Thank you,” she smiled. “James and I divorced a couple of years ago. Thankfully, the kids are with him tonight.”
Marc took a second glance at the picture.
James Corrigan?
He thought back to high school, and his body began to boil with salty anxiety. She had clearly not recognized him or his name. I suppose ‘Marc Addams’ is a common enough name, he convinced himself.
Over three hours, Marc prepared an immersive meal that began with a tomato-parmesan bisque and kale and roasted brussel sprout salad. Tastebuds would then submit to a main course of seared sirloin over spiraled roasted red cabbage and asparagus-risotto before being lathered in a delicate cherry-vanilla mousse and decadent chocolate sponge finale. He smiled, assured he had prepared the finest meal he could from his worn and tattered copper pots. Mathilde had made no specifications for the menu, leaving it all up to him, something he wanted her to do years ago when she dumped him at their prom, leaving with a lacrosse midfielder, James Corrigan. When she dropped out because of a pregnancy, Marc convinced his parents to send him elsewhere. Marc’s body scorched in the middle of Mathilde’s kitchen as he forced himself to swallow his memories and feed the woman he had to separate from the girl he used to know.
As Marc carried bowls into the dining room, he found Mathilde and her guests devoid of all but underwear. Marc averted his eyes as he served each person. He let out a laugh once in the kitchen and spooned sirloin drippings over the neatly stacked plates, almost dropping the copper pot when voices erupted from the dining room.
“Next course,” everyone cheered as chairs slid and bodies shuffled.
When Marc reentered the room, bare breasts and chest hairs greeted him. He thought of leaving, but the promise of seven-hundred dollars for the dinner was more than enough to keep him planted, an amount far greater than anything he had been paid for such a small service in his two years. Mathilde requested a delay on dessert, and when she called out to Marc a half-hour later, he was instructed to take the dessert into the living room.
All lights were off. Candles were lit atop every mantel. Blinds were bound closed, and all the guests laid over the pillow-covered floor. Mathilde stood in the middle, giving Marc instructions--an act that proved pointless as Marc was distracted by Mathilde’s black corset and glistening boots. With a hard-leathered tipped tickler in hand, Mathilde walked over to Marc.
“Everyone, take a plate,” she instructed her guests without breaking her stare into Marc’s eyes. “I hope you’ll join us Marc. I didn’t get a taste in high school, but I think I will tonight.”
The next morning, Marc woke up beneath chocolate-coated thighs, his hair tousled with mousse. He snuck into the kitchen where he found Mathilde in pajamas, coffee in hand.
“Thank you for dinner, Marc. Money’s in the envelope on the counter. Care for a cup of coffee before you go?”
Marc declined, hastily pulled on clothes over his smeared limbs, gathered his stuff, and jumped into his truck. He opened the envelope before taking off, and let out a chuckle when he read the note that accompanied his payment.
“Same time next week! I’m thinking finger food. And bring more chocolate!
XOXO
-Mathilde”
I may have to rethink my business model now, Marc mused as he drove away.
The prompts for the Mutant 750 Challenge #59 at Grammar Ghoul Press are the word "underwear" (a noun, meaning "clothing or an article of clothing worn next to the skin and under other clothing"), and the following image:
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Author
Tony is an aspiring writer and elementary educator from Birmingham, Alabama. He is currently working on several creative projects including the writing of a new web series set to shoot in June and a collection of short stories he hopes to self-publish in 2017.