Hope you’re all having a great friday! If you want an even better one, head over to Write on Edge to submit or read the posts submitted for this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt.
The prompt was to write a piece, 400 words or less, based on a mouthwatering photo of a BLT that they provided.
I seriously want to go home right now and fry up some bacon, and I haven’t even started reading everyone elses submissions.
“What do you mean, men are the only ones to make big romantic gestures?” I’d asked.
He leaned back, smirking, and replied, “The romantic gestures that women make are still geared towards women. Do you really think that a guy’s idea of an amazing evening involves rose petals, vanilla candles, and a rom-com? We do that because we know you like it. You do that because you like it. Women don’t know how to romance a guy.”
Double. Dog. Dare.
What else could I do but prove him wrong?
Stores were full of pink and red and sparkle. Stupid Hallmark.
By Tuesday afternoon, I was a nervous wreck.
I showed up at his door, bundled up and holding a black silk blindfold. The half-amused, cocky expression on his face was one I hoped to wipe away by the end of the night.
45 minutes later, I took the blindfold off him. His first view was of a blurry bouquet of roses.
I handed him his glasses and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Let’s get inside.”
He looked bemused, finally noticing that we were parked outside his house.
“You’ve got time to change into sweats, if you want. Game starts soon.”
Settled on the couch a bit later, I whipped the lid off the covered tray with a flourish and a smile. He’ll never know what hit him.
“Ta Daaaa!” I win at valentines!
He stared at the two BLT’s on the platter, the bread toasted to perfection, the bacon practically still sizzling from the pan. It was as perfect a BLT as I could make. He didn’t say a word.
Shit! I should have gone for more romance, less nostalgia. He probably doesn’t even remember this!
“Hah! That was the best night!” He grinned, squeezed me tight before taking a big bite of his sandwich. He groaned happily at the taste, licked at a drip of mayo and grabbed the remote. “What channel’s the game on?”
I snatched it out of his hand and flipped on the DVD player. “We’ll watch the recap later. The ‘game’ is what we’ll tell people we watched. The Notebook is what we’ll actually watch, because it’s your favourite. I don’t get it, but I love you, so I love watching it with you.”
His kiss tasted of maple smoked bacon. How the hell am I going to top this next year?