Freewritten Fiction: Just Desserts.

Here’s the first writer’s challenge I did (I think). The challenge was to write something in which your favorite dessert is described by someone who loathes it. 

I’ll put my response after the jump – should any other writer wandering by be inspired to do a wee exercise.

Claire –

After the third message on my machine to “get back to you” with all the “details” I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just set you up with him! He’s not for me.

It went pretty well last night; the movie was good, he was charming, everything was lovely. Sort of vacant and lovely, like the forced good cheer of a Tupperware party. No, okay, not quite that bad, but not great either. There was just no spark, no chemistry.

We went to his favorite restaurant after. I don’t know how it happened but he ordered for me. What a trip! I heard that guys used to do that, but you know, I don’t even think my MOM ordered for me when I was younger.

There was a prix fixe menu with two possible options, and he raved about the first – the beef meal – and I had my eye on the second, which had scallops. Maybe I was too interested in his description and he took it as assent, I don’t know? You can ask him on YOUR date with him.

Anyway, it was all pretty good, nevertheless. Then dessert came.

He said it was his favorite dessert of all time and why he came to the restaurant; it was chocolate mousse and strawberries, and of course since this was a high end place it was festooned with various coulees and other “look at me” flash. Wafers out the top like a Vegas headdress.

Can you hate someone based on his choice of favorite dessert? I mean, are you allowed? Because this dessert was florid and heavy and breathed down my throat; it was a drunk man with heavy wet hands attempting to cop a feel. You know I’ve never liked cheesecake because the texture has always seemed a bit suspicious to me. This was like all the worst of cheesecake, only foreign: if cheesecake is like your own post-nasal drip oozing down the back of your sickly throat, this was like having someone *else’s* post-nasal drip clogging your face.

And the taste! Too sweet. Like drug store chocolate that mainly tastes of wax and rancid milk. But the greasy residue of the cream pasted the taste in there. Mud explosion. I had to work not to gag.

So I grabbed for a strawberry. I love strawberries, but I suppose only in season. I’m not even sure these were strawberries. They could very well have been paper mache, soaked in red dye number 40 and simple syrup. Gah.

He kept raving about it this dessert, rolling his eyes and making throaty humming moans. It was practically a sexual performance. At that moment, I hated him. I hated him beyond all hope.

I know, I know.

You can have his number, if you want. I know you like mousse.

Comments

  1. I love that this exercise is a complete entity; it stands alone. I was expecting a snippet, a description. But you put it into context and made it worth reading. I like that part.
    And I love the descriptions – the drunk man copping a feel, and the post nasal drip thing made me gag. I wonder if I’ll ever eat mousse again.
    Keep posting your exercises here, please. Good reading.

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