Pasta Sauce

I licked the wooden spoon and smacked my lips like a cartoon Italian chef. I looked at my watch, Anna would be home in a few minutes and find the table set, and me wearing my best suit. 'Ha ha' I'd say, 'you thought I'd forgotten.'

The spaghetti was cooked to perfection, slowly on a low heat to make the sauce thick and creamy. I poured two glasses of grape juice -both of us gave up alcohol over thirty years ago, and neither of us missed it. We were happy with 7-Up and flavoured milk. I adjusted the cutlery like a snooker referee squeezing the black onto its spot amongst a cluster of reds, and checked my hair in the back of a spoon.

After retiring we enrolled on evening classes. I chose Italian cooking, she started on an Introduction to Philosophy course. Often she would tell me what she had learned while we sipped our grape juice and would eat the latest recipe I had learned.

I heard the front door open. I looked at what I had created, smiled, and went to meet Anna. Only it wasn't her. Three men, their faces hidden underneath balaclavas pointed guns at me.
I didn't say anything, just screamed until a gloved hand covered my mouth. I had guns at each of my eyeballs and could feel one in my neck.
"Your worst fucking nightmare" the man behind me replied.

I had to admit, he was right.