At my orange bistro table I sat down with familiar friends.
We ate fresh pasta parcels of ricotta and spinach coated in translucent oily pesto. Rolling each tight tortellini around the white glazed dish, we savoured, slowly. With cold cooked salmon on the side packing a punch of strong determined muscle, we nibbled on soft chargrilled onion focaccia; each bite an Italian adventure through Tuscan fields rolled in flame grilled artichoke and sun blushed olive infused tomato. Delicious! Eyes were suffused in colour and nose tingled with the tickle of tang and taste.
For afters a perfect pear; hard curves in shapely form and a blush of colour. A thing of beauty, to be admired. Then sliced and devoured in a delicious dream.
Stopping at the point of rapture, sorry I mean rupture, stuffed with a cushion of dis comfort, I felt the punches of an overloaded avalanche.
Surprisingly, friends turned in on me. Again!
One Loss, the other Regret!
One seeking comfort and solace, the other realising, yet again, I was consoling myself in the wrong places.