As oil and vinegar only combine after vigorous shaking, such
as is required for successful vinaigrette, we invariably took time to come to
homogeneity each time we met. Too much
time; our differences on each successive meeting seeming greater. Thus on that particular evening we’d sat
across the table from each other, unspeaking.
Drinking the speedily-delivered Merlot but, having ordered, choices made, now saying nothing. True, not only because of our own
mutual difficulties, but also because the conversation of the couple on the
table beside us – we were separated by a heavy curtain which maybe they
mistakenly believed was soundproof – concerned an unholy and compelling liaison;
a twinning of politics and piety. Only
when the name – names – of those
concerned was mentioned did you speak, and only then with your fingers, in a
gesture that indicated your clear desire to see the speaker garrotted at the
first possible opportunity, underlining your intention to do the job yourself with
the production from your pocket of a skein of piano wire.
[garrotted, vinaigrette, unholy - Prompt 81 for House of Writers]
