Pud
Gordon stepped low through the doorway, a little pot in each hand. He laid one on the table, his fingers gently nudging it so that the silver teaspoon handle pointed up at me, gleaming eagerly. Inside was a warm lump of pudding bathed in tendrils of melting ice cream.
We were sitting in the corner of his café after hours. He’d owned it for years and years, almost for the whole time I’d called him my friend. It was hard to remember the man who’d left high school burning with desire to be a private chef, to train across the world in different bars and restaurants and write a book of his culinary adventures.
“Don’t wait for me to start,” Gordon said, “Tuck in. We sold out but I made some more before you came because I know how much you like my sticky toffee.”
I smiled. It didn’t have the warmth that I intended it to, though.
Gordon stared at me, so I plucked up the spoon and scooped a mouthful. It was nice. Very nice. But I’d had it every Thursday evening since I could remember. And sometimes more often if we met up on other nights. Sometimes even perfection becomes tasteless.
“Did you have a hard time getting back today?” Gordon gazed at me across the table.
“No. It was alright.” I ate another mouthful.
“How’s the girlfriend?”
“She’s fine. She’s in a state of grief that we’re back from Ibiza but I think she’ll recover.” I tried a little laugh, but it came out short. I was very tired. Probably jetlagged, actually. I had no energy.
“Well, I’ve missed you, mate.” Gordon’s eyes were searching. “You were gone for weeks, I didn’t realise it was planned for so long.”
“Well - I bumped into an old friend and stayed longer.”
Gordon raised his eyebrows. “Older than me? Wow.” He grinned.
I snorted. “No, mate. No one’s older than you, Gordon grandpa.” I laughed, leaned forwards and slid my bowl back onto the table, finished.
“You’ve left some pud. No one leaves pud!” Gordon glared accusingly at me, only half joking.
“I wasn’t hungry, mate. I … I ate before.”
Gordon picked up the bowls with one quick hand movement and stood, apron flapping. He swept back to the kitchen counter, taking them with him without a word.
I glared at the black floor, guilt gnawing my insides. I should have remembered how important Gordon’s offerings of food were to him - to us, to our friendship. Back when my parents couldn’t buy me lunch and he would bring in cakes and breads and share them with me over the dinner hall benches. I’d forgotten these things while I was away.