White Icing

White Icing

His hand spun on the dowel of the final flight of stairs. Resting for
just a moment, one foot already poised on the bottom tread, he drew a
long shuddering breath. Six flights up and down those stairs several
times a day and the damned things never seemed to get any easier. Some
days he took these last thirteen steps two at a time as a rebellious
act of defiance against his straining heart. Today he felt the blood
pumping in his left temple quite strongly enough to tell him not to
push his luck.

He didn't think he'd mind dying of a heart attack today. In fact it
might be a pleasant release, but if he expired right there on the
stairs the punk rocker opposite with the two Bull Mastiffs would
probably trample him underfoot the next time he took the beasts out,
and that would just be so unseemly.

Smiling ruefully and panting heavily, he dragged his reluctant body up
those last torturous steps, only the thought of a hot cup of coffee
giving his calf muscles the added impetus they needed to make the rise.
He stopped outside his front door and picked up the small package that
had been left. Obviously 'Killer' and 'Satan', or whatever the hell
'punk-freak' called those dogs, hadn't been past his door recently. He
knew this because the package was completely devoid of glutinous dog
slobber.

Turning the parcel over in his hands, he felt a moment of pain more
intense than climbing eighty flights of stairs would have been. The
oyster-coloured box with the silver bells and crap was addressed in
Sarah's neat hand. His spirits, already in the bass section of the
orchestra, dropped another couple of octaves.

He let himself into the flat, and smiled as Prissy rubbed herself in
greeting around his legs.

"Hello baby, have you behaved yourself today? Yes, yes, I'll feed you
now puss, just give me a second to get in. What do you fancy girl, cat
food or wedding cake? I would highly recommend the former."

He flicked the switch to boil the kettle, fed the cat, spooned coffee
and milk into a cup and milk and cat food into a segregated bowl. She
shouldn't have the milk, but what the hell, this was a celebration. He
opened and read three buff-clad pieces of mail, all demands for his
hard earned cash, and turned his nose up in the direction of the cat
littler tray which was doing a good impression of a Japanese turd
garden. While all the time he averted his eyes from the delicate little
package on the worktop.

The kettle boiled and he poured the steaming water over the rich coffee
granules, taking pleasure in the aroma that was released into the air.
Okay, it was sullied pleasure owing to the fact that Prissy's artwork
was still percolating its own smell, but hey, that was the score of his
life. He stirred the coffee twenty one times in a clockwise direction
and tapped the teaspoon twice on the rim of his cup.

He opened the crockery cupboard and bypassed the everyday stuff that he
normally used, stretching instead to the furthest corner of the
cupboard, from where he retrieved one of his best china side plates.
Only the best would do. Picking up his coffee he plonked the box on top
of the side plate and moved through to sit at the breakfast table
looking out onto the communal garden some storeys below.

He ran his fingertip lightly over the handwriting on the box. Her
handwriting. He felt sad that he couldn't feel her through the ink. Had
she already slipped so far from him?
Prissy lunged onto his knee, shaking the table and causing a small
amount of coffee to spill in a Rorshach blot onto the white linen
tablecloth. The cat was unrepentant, and pushed her nose boldly into
his face. Her whiskers were slick with the remnants of cat food still
clinging to them, and she breathed a gust of fish-soured breath into
his mouth. He laughed and pushed her gently down. Undeterred, she again
jumped onto his knee, only this time she stretched out her hind leg and
rested it just below his nose as she began to lick her backside,
purring happily.

"Be assertive man," he said aloud as he pushed the cat more forcefully
from his knee. Of course all this was just delaying the inevitable. It
couldn't be put off any longer.

He unwrapped the thin sliver of cake, hardly more than a mouthful,
thank God. The astringent smell of matured brandy wafted from the rich
fruitcake. "Does anybody actually like this stuff?" he thought as he
bit through the sickly, too sweet icing, past the thick layer of bitter
marzipan which he hated with a vengeance and into the dark cloying
moistness of the cake itself. "Blood and Sand; this stuff is horrible"
he thought as he chewed mechanically through the first of three bites.
It was disgusting.

The second mouthful was even worse than the first; it seemed all the
pieces of mixed peel had congregated together to 'get him'. He chewed
for what seemed like an eternity on the vile symbol of someone else's
happiness, before relishing the blessed release of having covered the
lump in enough saliva to enable swallowing. He put the last morsel of
cake into his mouth, and sucked the first three fingers on his left
hand.
"Congratulations", he said aloud, spraying cake onto the surprised
cat.

He chewed slowly, savouring the taste of the disgusting cake, in much
the same way that he had luxuriated in his self-pity for the last six
months. He ate almost reverently as he took this last sacrament of
unrequited love. He swallowed, took a long slug of too-hot coffee and
swallowed again. It seemed appropriate that as he finally swallowed his
love for Sarah it should burn his throat. Then he sat for a further
five minutes at the table watching the flowers bloom, the trees sway
and the weeds strangle as he finished his coffee.

"I am re-born Prissy" he said as the cat cocked her head curiously
though offering no argument to this statement. "Things are going to be
very different around here"

He stood and walked into the living room. Prissy, sensing her human's
strange mood, followed him stealthily. He picked up a crystal penguin
from the mantelpiece, took it into the kitchen and stuck it into the
tallest turd in the litter box.

"I never did like that bloody thing" he said in explanation. The cat
looked at the intruding penguin, which in turn looked as though it were
about to ski down the piste, and then she stuck her tail in the air and
stalked of. Hers was not to wonder why.

He threw open the French doors that led out onto the balcony, and the
warm summer evening rushed in a pleasant welcome to envelope him and
draw him out. So there he stood leaning on his balcony, in his flat.
For the first time in months, it felt good to be alive. He was a new
man.

A girl clopped past on the pavement below. High heels, skirt way up her
pleasantly brown thighs, long hair swinging in time with her
hips.

He did something he'd never done in his life before ? he let out a long
low wolf whistle.

"Hey Gorgeous, fancy a drink?"

She turned slowly, pivoting on those shoulder pinning legs. "In your
dreams yuppie boy." She flicked the bone elaborately at him.

"Your loss Baby, your loss."

She was grinning, her wide red lips spread to reveal teeth that were
clean and white

"The Red Lion, ten minutes," she yelled up at him. Melon Breezer
please, lots of ice."

"I'll be there." He flew into the bathroom long enough to brush his
teeth and fling some after-shave around. Then he was gliding down the
stairs, jacket swinging nonchalantly from one shoulder, as he took the
stairs three, four, five at a time.
Life was good. Bloody good.