Bitter
(Dedicated to Howard Twelftree)

Roz Taylor

Phillip pushed manicured fingers through his silver hair and yawned. It had been a long night without sleep. He checked out the man staring at him from the exquisite vintage shaving mirror. Hampton’s-holiday-house tan, dimpled chin, fleshy lips and strong jaw-line. Not bad. What did it take to impress these days? Not good looks, wealth and taste, if Edward’s actions were anything to go by.

He wandered out on to his terrace. Manhattan penthouses permitted spying rights on the good folk below. A new exhibition opened this morning in the Costume Institute at The Met. A stylish line posed along Fifth Avenue. Being a Museum member, he used to love showing off Edward in The Trustees Dining Room. The sweet thing thought the spiced Australian lamb was to die for. ‘Well the lamb sure did,’ Phillip barbed. He was bitter. Edward’s tardy, if at all, appearances at their lunches hurt. And they did not go unnoticed. It was biting that his errant partner’s favourite restaurant column was the New Yorker’s ‘Tables for Two’.

Summer had shamed Phillip, having dined around the Upper East Side in states of undress. This was how he felt, after stupidly and repeatedly suffering Edward’s cruel disregard for their dinner dates. If the boy arrived during appetiser, Phillip felt awkward; if entrée, exposed; for dessert, pitifully uncovered; when not even for espresso, Phillip was laid bare. He was naked dining without Edward. Eating alone at a table set for two outed the holes in their relationship. For all to see. He was fed up with being the butt of jokes. If it were not so divine, he would have booted Edward’s derrière back to The Village long ago. All not-so-good things however, must come to their end.

Returning inside to the kitchen, Chicago’s ‘Saturday in the Park’ was on the radio. Just the one tear sullied Phillip’s silk robe. He planned to play out its lyrics today, with a fourth of July picnic for Edward. How he was looking forward to licking his lover’s posterior on the blanket. Now more than ever. He packed the hamper, doting over the sausages. Straight from the skillet, they were engorged with juices. Quite like Edward. Hot for it on any occasion. Pity Edward’s occasions of late had not involved him. Phillip’s quip about the oldest pot making the best sauce fell flat now. Edward used to find their age difference a turn-on. Now Phillip was stale …

He covered a patch of Central Park grass with his goodies. One of his favourite spots, near the Boathouse. He adored taking Edward on gondola rides on the lake. It was a chance to reminisce about their Valentine’s Day in Venice. He had relished surprising his love with gastronomic jaunts. Today he sentimentally included baccalà in their brunch. To hell with the garlic.

They used to enjoy Saturday breakfasts in bed, mocking Rachael Ray re-runs. How they hated her relentless regurgitation of the acronym, EVOO. Stupid bitch. If he saw it again on a menu he would scream. In fact he had begun to despise menus in general, having spent so much time using them as masks. They shielded him from dining rooms seemingly full of couples—and served as reminder of Edward’s absence. Why did today’s menus shove ‘share plates’ in his face? What about those who dined alone? It grated on him.

Another source of irritation came up to greet him. Bradley and Cooper. Bradley’s beau had the nerve to wipe his loafer on Phillip’s picnic blanket. They delighted in noticing Edward was not upon it. No doubt this humiliating experience would join others of Phillip’s on their menu of conversation this evening. Let them dine out at his expense. While they could not see Edward with him there today, Phillip knew he was there. In the flesh.

Preoccupation with the pricks saw him up-end a glass of merlot. It spilled onto the rug the same way Edward’s blood did across his carpet at 3.00 am this morning. Now here was another stain he had to get rid of.

Damn Edward. Phillip had intended such a beautiful day for them today. Why did he have to go and tell him about Damien? He had suspected another man had been keeping Edward from him, and last night he almost bragged about it. Shoved it down Phillip’s throat. There he was, in leather chaps and g-string, bent over Phillip’s coffee table, flicking through Gourmet Travellers. Rubbing his nose in it. So Edward wanted to remind him of what he had been missing? Phillip stared at his naked rump and firmly decided no one else was going to get a piece of it except him.

Edward sat pertly on the couch, plucking a woven belt from his Bloomingdale’s bag. Phillip thought it hideous and hinted it was going to be the death of their relationship. He leaned in from behind and swiftly took it from him. Poor boy’s belt was going to be an accessory to murder. Phillip smirked at his word play while pulling it tight around his lover’s neck. Was this a crime of passion, or Edward a victim of fashion? He chuckled. Strangling your beloved with Versace does tend to scramble one’s eggs.

Stepping slowly into the kitchen, Phillip glimpsed his gleaming new Wüsthof from Williams-Sonoma. Edward had gifted it to him, with feigned guilt for his restaurant no-shows. Ahh, my beautiful one, how these things can come back to bite you on the bottom. Phillip gracefully grasped the knife. Eight inches. He smiled.

His hands shook slightly, like the Roquefort panna cotta he once enjoyed at Cipriani’s. Alone. Edward’s chaps allowed easy access to his fabulous buttocks. Primary reason for purchase no doubt. Phillip sliced from both cheeks. He was never one to do things half-assed. He could have followed the traditional recipe for revenge, and cut off Edward’s penis, but he did not have the balls. This was no time for unsavoury jokes. He must search his library for that book on smallgoods from Kitchen Arts & Letters.

Phillip wistfully refilled his glass and lovingly reached across the picnic blanket for Edward. The sausages were deathly cold now. Limp, and lifeless. Warm and firm would have been far more fitting. And comforting. Either way, he was about to take Edward into his mouth for the last time. But in doing so, they would be together. Phillip would never dine alone again.