Saturday Morning

I met Carlo at the bakery, he is running errands for his mum. I want sweet focaccias, my normal Saturday morning fare, they only have date scones. Well, that was the next thing I fancied.

What?

I exit the shop with the brown paper bag in my hand feeling just the lightest bit disappointed. Carlo is just coming in. He follows me home, saying something about not having seen me around. We smoke half a joint, which I have in the ashtray in the kitchen, ready for after my orange and walnut focaccia. I put brewed coffee on, as Carlo goes cross-eyed. He does a little dance, right there on the tiled floor. He's an eager puppy. He says it is his happy dance. The boy loves pot, it's good to see.

He's beautiful. He's got the sexiest legs, on him, in his tight shorts. He's a hairy Italian boy who just oozes sex appeal.

Ah! Ah! Ah! He gulps for breath. On his tip-toes. He kicks. Up against the granite. AAAhhhhhhhhhh! His stomach clenches. Ahhhhhhhhhhh! He crunches his arms in front of himself, as he pirouettes on one toe. Dark olive skin. Black hair. Ah! Muscles in a tank top. His lips glistens pink. Green eyes. Ahhhhhh! He kicks again with the same power of the first. Thick legs. Hairy stomach. He's stroking the air above him, almost Bollywood. He's gaining his breath. Ahhhh! He spins. He stops, arms out. An eighteen year old smile, unblemished skin, other than the beads of sweat on his stubbly top lip.

He sits back against the kitchen bench. He smiles.

"Wanna go again?" he says. Big grin, white teeth. That wog boy voice, husky, cheeky. He holds his hand out. "Here, I'll show you."

Sometimes, I just want to eat him like a sweet focaccia.

I put coffee down in front of him.

“Do you want milk?”

“No.” He pulls a face.

“Do you want sugar?”

“Of course.”

“I forget that.” I get the sugar bowl and a spoon. “It always seems the wrong way around?”

“What does?” asks Carlo. He slides the teaspoon into the raw sugar and drags a heaped spoonful out and stirs it into his coffee.

“You guys…”

“You mean the wogs?”

“Yes. You like sugary black coffee. And I always imagine you’d put some milk into your coffee.”

“Nah.” He slides the spoon back into the sugar bowl extracting a second heaped spoonful of sugar. “Sugar.” He stirs the second spoon of sugar into his coffee. “Not milk.”

“But, milk just enhances the taste of coffee, where sugar changes the flavour.”

“Says you.” Carlo raises the coffee cup to his lips.

“Yes, I say.”

“How about that sweet focaccia?”

“Weren’t you doing errands for your mum?”

“They can wait?”

“When is she expecting them done?”

“Oh, she’s used to how her errands get done.”

“Slow, or not at all.”

“Getting done when they get done,” says Carlo. “She had three sons.”

“Are you all alike?”

“Sweet focaccia,” repeats Carlo. “She does expect her errands done this morning sometime?”

“Date scones,” I say.

“You can date a scone,” says Carlo. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“They’d sold out of orange and walnut focaccias, I got date scones.”

“Date scones?” questions Carlo.

“They taste good with lashings of butter,” I say. “Like everything does.”

“Like everything?”

“Everything tastes better with butter?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Okay, give me one of your date scones then.”

“Coming up, sir,” I say.

I get the brown paper bag and a plate and the butter.

“Do you think I would?”

I cut the scone in half and lay the two halves on the plate.” “What?”

“Taste better with butter?”

I run the knife through the butter and spread a generous amount of butter over the scone. “Yes, yes you would.”

Where would you butter me?”

I spread a generous amount of butter on the other half. “Where it would do you the most good.” I push the plate towards Carlo.

“My mother warned me about boys like you,” says Carlo.

I cut another date scone in half, lying the two halves down on the kitchen bench. “I wonder what you mother would say at the sight of your buttered arse.” 

“She’d say that’s my boy.

I spread a generous amount of butter on both halves of my scone. “That’s my boy? You think she’d say that’s my boy at the sight of your glistening butt hole?”

Carlo smiles as he sips his coffee.