A spoonful of sugar

“Pass the piss stash,” he said.

“The what?” She asked, while he laughed at his own immaturity. His laughter annoyed her, it was too late for such a high-pitched squeal.

“The pistachio gelato.” She looked at him with reproach. “Pleaseeeee.”

She opened the freezer and pulled out a clear plastic container made mint-green from the dessert inside. The label on the container read Sicilian Pistachio. She passed it to him.

Holding the container in one hand, he turned and grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer with the other. He leaned against the counter and twisted the cap off.

“I wonder if the pistachios are from Sicily or if Sicilian refers to the style of the preparation,” he said.

She left the kitchen without comment.

Flan

I ordered flan in Milan from a waiter named Jean. He hailed from France, and was snowed in by chance so he decided to remain in the Italian city most renowned for its pants. When the snow melted, he felt it was time to return to his land but first wanted his velvet pants to be dealt with, or belted, just as long as they stayed by his waist when he tilted. So he went to the tailor to submit to a fitting, the old man’s fingers were flitting, and without any warning a pin pricked his skin while he was sitting. He bled through the fabric, a dramatic stain appearing seemingly as if by magic. Not even a napkin pressed firmly against the waiter’s apparently, easily, puncturable flesh could stem the intense seepage, dispensing from his appendage. The waiter expired (his pants hemmed, but not finished with all that was required) and the flan in his thoughts till the end.