What the fuck is his name?

“I’m making pasta. I was going to make risotto, but my flatmate’s used all my Arborio rice. Would you like some?”

“What I’d really like,” I said slowly, “is some coffee. Really strong coffee. Please?”

“Oh, ok,” he said, ushering me to sit down at a small table. It didn’t really fit in the kitchen, so I was bustled as he flitted around me taking things out of cupboards and filling the kettle. He didn’t seem in the least perturbed by my drunken state. But then, I suppose I must have been equally drunk – more drunk, in fact – when we met the previous night.

Where the fuck did I meet him?

He talked all the while he cooked and made coffee for me in a cafétiere. A warm brown scent filled the room as he poured the hot water onto the grounds.

I couldn’t seem to take any of it in; his words were like burbling water filtering through my fingers. He might as well have been speaking in German.

“Do you speak German?” I asked abruptly.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And French. And a little bit of Spanish. And very bad Norwegian.”

“Are you speaking it now?”

“No,” he laughed, handing me a large mug of sobering goodness.

Blessed, glorious wonder of coffee.

I held it up to my nose and breathed it in.

“Oh yeah,” he said, darting out of the room. He returned a moment later brandishing the t-shirt I had left in exchange for his best shirt; a hastily arranged pact from the murky morning.

“Thank you. It’s washed and ironed,” I noted. “Are you a student?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Well, if you had nothing better to do all day other than wash and iron my t-shirt… Not that I’m not grateful…”

How grateful? Briar’s teeth glinted in my mind.

I bet his cock was enormous. Monstrous.

“Sounds it,” said German-speaking pasta man wryly.

What the fuck is his name?

I unbuttoned the shirt with clumsy fingers. He watched as I pulled it off, his eyes drinking in my naked chest.

“You’re drunk, and you’re occassionally quite rude, but you’re very handsome.”


We were both naked in the kitchen when she came in. I was braced against the table facing the door, with pasta man bobbing enthusiastically at my croctch, so I was treated to the full on ‘o’ of surpise.

“For fuck’s sake, Romeo,” she hastily retreated to the hallway, half-closing the door, “what’s wrong with your fucking bed?”

“Sorry, got distracted,” said Romeo, coming up for air. At least I knew his name now. “Did you finish my risotto rice?”

“Er, yeah. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

“I’ll get some more when I go shopping… Could you both put some clothes on please?”

He looked up at me, his eyes twinkling, and grinned.

“In a minute.”


He stood up, kissed me, sliding his tongue into my mouth, returning my own salty-sweet taste to me. I wanted to apologise for the coffee hue, but he was kissing too enthusiastically for me to get a word in.

“Thanks Romeo,” I said, breaking away. “That was really nice.”

He was laughing at me.

“What’s so funny?”

“My name is Fred.”

I blushed and apologised, and he continued with his laughing, but my phone interrupted us, shrilling insistently.

“I have to take this,” I said.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Sorry, Marina,” I said quickly. “I lost him…”

“Too fucking right, you did.”

Her voice was sharp, acid with fury.

“I’m really sorry…”

“You will be,” she promised. “Briar is dead.”

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