Been writing a lot recently, trying to polish my second book to a glorious sheen. Partly to keep me fresh, partly because… Well just because I’ve written a few flash, and shorts. Here’s one I enjoyed and hope you do too.
Tea and Crumpet
Colin had not felt this way for a long time, but then again it had been a while since he had drunk tea.
Tea, he associated with Aunts. And Aunts with knitwear. And knitwear with cheek pinching. And Colin had a skin allergy brought on by any pressure greater than 15 kpi.
But Rosebud (who didn’t blame her parents but rather a deaf birth registrar) had a tea fetish which meant at this particular moment of high passion Colin had ingested in excess of a litre of Ceylon silvertip first pickings.
Colin sat in bed, creaming the consequent hives and pondered this dilemma. If he continued his nascent relationship with Rosebud it would be a dermatological disaster. The pressure from her thighs alone had proved that the family’s suspicions about the background of his maternal grandfather were probably correct. And while his beginner’s yoga classes hadn’t progressed sufficiently far for him to see for himself, he suspected a merely competent fingerprint expert could lift a perfect example of Rosebud’s whorls from his right buttock.
But these superficial passion tattoos were but a gilding of this imperfect lily. No, the real problem was the tea and in particular the intestinal infarction that imbibing had induced. Tea, it seemed was not just a memory jogger but a gut gazumper, an alimentary alienator. The tumult that was beginning to develop somewhere between pancreas and prostate had, to Colin, something of a tsunami feel to it.
Any moment Rosebud would return for the promised ‘Round Two of Rumpty-tumpty’ and he knew, with the same certainty that he knew his Aunt’s knitwear would never be described as the new black, that his flagrantly unfragrant fissile fusillade of flatulence would finally finish his febrile fumblings.
Colin however was a reflective fellow and when a problem posed itself he retreated inside until a solution presented itself. Leaning back Colin reached for a post coital cigarette. He balanced his lighter on his knee while he cogitated.
Timing in love as in life is everything. Just as Rosebud lost her grip, slippery with soap and seminal fluid, on her wine glass, Colin’s pelvic resistance began to give up the struggle and he gripped the lighter tighter. A simple chemistry experiment ensued. Methane (CH4) with an auto ignition of 580C subjected to a Butane flame circa 880C will inevitably combust. Under pressure it escapes at 95 metres per second.
When Rosebud emerged from the bathroom moments later, gloriously naked, she took in Colin’s surprised expression and flaming penis and knew, at last, here was a man with the red hot passion she had been seeking all her life.