Ice Cube Heart

There are ice cubes sitting in the freezer. I think about how they used to be liquid from the tap, yet now they are blocks of frozen ice.  This reminds me of a story once told to me by an old sentimental fool.

A man and a woman loved each other. When his love was new to her, his heart was warm. He and she moved through life easily, for the days were sunny despite the weather. His laughter was so infectious to her, that she would often bloom with a smile. 

After some time passed, his heart turned into those ice cubes. To her, he remained so dear despite the cold feelings that crept into his arteries. Although there was no warmth in his heart any more, she never gave up hope that his love was real.

Then, one day just like any other, they travelled together in the car. He was driving and calling her names over something trivial.  She was quite upset. He did not realise that soon she would leave this world and he would no longer have the sunshine of his heart.

An accident occurred.  As she lay dying in the passenger seat, his heart began to melt. He then realised how much he loved her.  He promised to honour her by climbing many mountains and exploring the Earth with her ashes, so that they could both see the world together. 

That sentimental old fool is the man in this story. He died a few years ago and had her ashes sprinkled all over him before he was cremated. 


The Heater

In the winter when the southerly winds blow from Antarctica, through Tasmania, and makes their presence known to the people of Melbourne, we turn the heating on. We don’t ask much of you. We just ask that you do your job and heat the house for us.  Is this too much to ask?

Winter went on for months without end. You worked for us well, until you thought spring was coming early.  Now you’re resetting all the time, turning yourself off, keeping your status at the rather puzzling setting, “On Waiting”, and telling us you are going to be uncooperative.

You remind me of my good friend’s partner.  She was always telling him to get turned on, but he was always turned off.  She would cry to him, “Why do I always have to turn you on!?…why don’t you ever turn me on anymore!?”

Turns out, he wasn’t really into her. They end up going their separate ways. Now he is a distant memory.

Heater, please don’t make me replace you because you won’t turn on for me, even though I’m trying to turn you on.

Cullender of Colander

At home she rinses the vegetables in the Colander.  The water washes over the vegetables, then down through the holes, and into the drain to head for the water treatment plant.  Once the water arrives it is treated and cleansed so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook you food and how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about, or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain to head for the water treatment plant. Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.


My Knees Squeak

You fucked off.

Where you went is none of my concern, now that your heart and mine don’t sing a pretty song. 

Now, all I can do is talk to myself about regrets and shit. I’m alone, in my 30’s and my bank balance is small. You even took the cat with you because you said she loves you more!

In my desolation and decay, I put on five kilograms from eating too many Swiss chocolates, my clothes don’t fit properly, and I look like a frump.

Now that I have taken the path of least resistance and succumbed to watching shit loads of television and listening to crap music, my knees squeak as I move from the couch to the coffee table, and I talk to myself in a morphed language.

When will you acknowledge that I still love you, or am I just blowing hot air up my arse?


Tablecloth Blues

“Dinner is almost finished. Will you scratch my back? It’s so itchy…”

As he gets up from the table, and then heads towards the cave he says, “I’ll think about it…”

She’s still itchy and knows, even if he is taking the piss, the itch will not be adequately scratched any time in the near future.

The tablecloth has embroidered bumps which move along the fabric in perfectly proportioned lines. It suits her obsessive nature.

She takes off her top, and then she begins to rub her back against the tablecloth.

The salt and pepper shakers fall over with a bump, the tomato sauce bottle rolls onto the floor, and the plates start to move towards the edge.

He comes out to investigate the cause of the noise, only to find his pretty girl scratching her back on the tablecloth.

“Are you quite alright there?”

“I’m itchy!”

“I’d better scratch you then…”

“No groping! Be nice!”

“I’m always nice, and you know it.”

She turns her head and gives him a sideways eye smile, as she starts to moan from the wonderful scratch.

The Extreme Setting

You went on Tingly Tinglier looking for a hot date. You found this sexy chic with long red hair, blue eyes, and long legs. You swiped upwards too many times. Luckily, she’s a bit desperate so she swiped down.

At dinner, all you can think about is how nice it would be to tie her up, tickle her feet, and bang her into the bed stand. 

She’s looking a bit toey and tingly, so you ask her back to your place for an extra strong coffee with cream, milk, and sugar. 

Inside your home, romance begins on your washing machine. You’ve never found a woman who likes washing clothes, so this has got you baffled.

You get into her kinky nature and turn the spin cycle to the extreme. She’s in ecstasy, her toes are curling, and she looks like she’s having a seizure. 

You want to be a gentleman, so you ask her if she is alright, but she begs you to keep turning the spin cycle to the extreme. 

Things progressed. Now that she has moved in with you, your clothes are always so fresh and clean. 

Cake Crisis

You love chocolate gateau cake.  You’re always asking for this cake to be made and presented to you on special occasions. Sadly, your special occasions involve your family, friends, the odd random person, and usually someone dressed up in something contentious or cringe worthy.

I take the challenge on with both hands. One hand would be a bit difficult, given the nature of the spatula.

I am making a cake for you.

I mix the ingredients.

I move backwards and forwards with ease as I tick off one goal after another.

Then, losing the will to live, I stand in the middle of it all contemplating sticking my hand in the blender.  I value my hand more than I value the quality of your gluten free, almond free, dairy free, fucking everything free, chocolate fucking gateau cake.

You still love my chocolate gateau cake. Unfortunately, your family doesn’t so much. Was that plain flour I used? Oops, I didn’t notice.