Way to a Woman's Heart

(Photo: Alison at the Dildo Kwik Mart, Trinity Bay, by Bruce Johnson)

"All my men have cooked for me says Della.

She looks down at her breasts, sweeps a crumb off her tight blouse with her right pinkie, smoothes the nylon apron. There’s a mix of aromas from the full serving trays, thick but not unpleasant. Overhead, a buzzing from the florescent lights. Outside, a bus swishes and farts, carves the puddles and stops. The door to the café implodes - stamping feet, a curl of diesel fumes. There’s a run on the gum stand, the muffin tray, the soft drinks but Della stands behind her counter of pink meats and unlikely salads fixed on an audience of one.

George, now George liked sausages, she says, fidgeting with an oval tray containing something gel green. Spicy Italian were his favourite. A smile pulls at the ends of her mouth. Course he didn’t really do much with them, just cooked them with a mound of mash potatoes or noodles, he liked those tight squiggly ones. Her eyes blink like silent castanets. Mostly he’d sit there and watch me eat. Sometimes he’d offer to cut them up, my sausages, but that made me feel a bit uncomfortable like.

Della looks out at the big window, between her deli counter and the bus stop. It’s steamed up and showing traces of an old x’s and o’s game.

And he was up out of it as soon as he’d eaten. I mean he was up and at the dishes like, straight away. I never knew if I should hurry up and finish and help him out or what. She gives the clean stainless steel counter top a quick wipe, tossing the cloth behind her into the sink..." [excerpt from: Way to a Woman's Heart, A. Dyer, 2006]