Oil

Wales, 1994

The oil slowly accumulated in the plastic bottles in the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink.

Every time she cooked for him she used the cheapest she could find. And used in abundance.

She kept the best for herself. Why? Because she could. There wasn’t much she controlled but the decision on the quality of the cooking oil was hers and hers alone.

And this lonely autonomy had been hers since they had met.

Happy they were when they began. He, working in some opaque finance role, she, in the local failing bookshop.

He - practical.

She - dreamer.

Their characters slowly and typically becoming accentuated as they aged. Children came and went. And slowly, gradually he became almost intoxicated with his dreams of accumulating money while she sought liberation in her books, their dust and their nostalgia.

Their mutual ambivalence the hint of a storm to come, turned to impatience and distaste, before yielding to distrust and dislike, then ultimately reaching hate.

Her cooking purposefully worsened, in sync with her feelings for him. Both becoming increasingly oily. The drinks stronger and more frequent. The salination levels slowly but steadily gaining on the Dead Sea.

¨Aren’t you hungry, love?¨

¨No, sure didn’t I eat earlier.¨

¨Ah so, more for me¨

¨Fill your boots Jesus sure aren’t there some dying of hunger¨

Wasn’t long, (but too long she thought), til his heart could take no more.

They buried him in fresh Connemara soil, but the worms weren’t interested. Too oily and salty - like a fried fish.

She never cooked again, though she is enthusiastic for the Mediterranean type diet, his life assurance policy having been generous enough to provide for such.

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