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.”