Red Writing Hood is back! Well, it was back last week, but I couldn’t think of a damn thing to write about epitaths.
Four hundred words or less, fiction or creative non-fiction, linked up on Friday morning’s post, based on one of the following definitions:
flavor |ˈflāvər| ( Brit. flavour)
1 the distinctive quality of a particular food or drink as perceived by the taste buds and the sense of smell : the chips come in pizza and barbecue flavors.
• the general quality of taste in a food : no other cracker adds so much flavor to cheese or peanut butter.
• a substance used to alter or enhance the taste of food or drink; a flavoring : we use vanilla and almond flavors.
• [in sing.] figurative an indefinable distinctive quality of something : this year’s seminars have a European flavor.
• [in sing.] figurative an indication of the essential character of something : the extracts give a flavor of the content and tone of the conversation.
Go HERE to check out more posts that answered this prompt, or to submit your own!
“Mmmmm, this is delicious! You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”
Annie smiled slightly, one hand running along the smooth contours of the pearl necklace her husband had bought her the week before.
“What’d you call it?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
“…Mushroom risotto.” Annie had always hated the way he shoveled food down his gullet. She paused, toying with the untouched food on her own plate.
I love you so much, you know that, right? I’m so sorry, I won’t do it again, I swear she meant nothing to me. You’re my angel, I love you, he’d said, offering up the Mikimoto box. She had matching earrings, a diamond studded tennis bracelet, and an assortment of glittering necklaces to attest to this so-called love already. Every one of them a promise that guaranteed one thing, and one thing only – he would never ‘do it’ again, until the next time.
“Mm, it’s just so flavorful. There’s this hint of… I don’t know what, but it’s there, and it’s really just… Mmmmh.” He loosened his tie, face flushed.
“I think the fresh mushrooms really add a certain something to it.”
“Mmm” she agreed. “I went on a great mushroom hike a while back, learned all about all sorts of them. Went out a few days ago and found some Angel Mushrooms. Felt inspired.” She stared into her wine glass, admiring the ruby reflection of light that landed on the table cloth.
“Well that explains how angelic this stuff tastes,” He tried to give her a devilish grin, but it twisted slightly at the twisting rumble in his gut. He cleared his throat again, voice raspy, and took a gulp of wine. “That’s impressive – I heard it’s hard to make sure you aren’t picking the poisonous ones with the edible ones.”
Annie smiled sweetly at that, looking up and meeting her husband’s eyes.
“Y’know, the ones that won’t kill you,” he tugged at his collar some more, face glistening with sweat. “You made sure to not… “ he cleared his throat again. “Is it… does it feel warm in here to you?” He coughed and swallowed thickly, clearly struggling.
“Oh,” she said, smiling more broadly. “It’s much easier, actually, to just identify one or two poisonous ones, and go with that. Plus, I thought it was kind of apt to go with the Destroying Angel.”
Her husband’s eyes bulged out, thick fingers tugging and fumbling at the collar of his shirt.
Annie waited patiently. When he was finally still, face down in the risotto, she carefully pushed back her chair and stood up. Looming above him, eyes hooded and dark, she fingered the smooth contours of the pearls around her neck.
“I’m so sorry, hon,” she said, deadpan. “I promise I’ll never do it again. I love you, you know that, right?”