It All Tastes Like Ketchup
Flash Fiction
He had bought hot sauce on a whim. He was more of a ketchup man, but the packaging looked so bold. Now it sat in the caddie in the centre of the table, alongside the salt ’n’ pepper, and a yellowing napkin, unopened and untouched.
He flicked through old photos on his phone. His Grade 8 graduation, that fishing trip to Vermont. A hand, hairier than it was in the pictures, scratched his burgeoning belly. His wife clattered pans on the stove, but he barely noticed. The present couldn’t touch him when he ventured into the past.
A goofy grin on his 21st birthday. A snap of Shaun passed out on a too small couch. Shaun was a strict Mormon now. He shook his head. Funny how things changed.
His thumbs flicked across the screen. Parties, weddings, vacations.
He stopped. Susie. The one with the great ass. She liked shots of tequila and leaving bruises. That had been a fun summer. Her head was tilted back in the photo. Mouth wide, teeth gleaming. He remembered that mouth well, taste and sensation. It was just before he met his wife. Maria, stolid and dependable.
He sensed his wife moving close and set his phone down. She smiled, an expression that barely shifted her features. Her sure hands plunked a plate of scrambled eggs before him. He returned a smile, but…
