Ages in life recall a distinct past echo.
I remember the blending tryst of Ruby and Coral as it traversed a circuitous route at eighteen years of age.
At the end of college, I ummed and aahed whether to attend the annual ritual salami-making day at Ruby's restaurant. An invitation never delivered by the brunette, only her mother. This event followed the Saturday morning after the girl's eventful tennis challenge.
I intended to ring and make an excuse. These convivial gatherings belonged in the past, and Uni pointed to the future. I sensed Coral's troupe dissolving and myself transitioning. We were minus Josh, barely into a new year.
Coral rang me before I built the courage to ring Ruby's mum. My bestie insisted I go as she added her agenda. She wanted me to invite her to the salami day. An event she never participated in because Ruby appreciated Coral, and salami gloop steered a wide berth.
Coral knew my plasticity for whatever she asked. I readied and waited, including time to daydream, wondering what she would wear and her hairstyle.
Finally, she arrived at my place, and I jumped in her peach-coloured car. My immediate shock was her over-sprayed hair, a pure injustice made worse by her locks restraint in a rare ponytail. I surmised she realised it was hairspray or a hairnet in the restaurant.
Hairspray and Coral's tresses produced a nightmare combo. A lilac skirt diverted me, though not my choice for her.
Lavender, yes — she owned lavender.
Then I tempered my discernment; this young lady could pull off any colour.
Coral chirped chatty on the drive, urging me to embrace the day. I grasped she wasn't going to Ruby's minus a plan.
My overriding thoughts stabbed; the brunette minx stirred Coral's heart at tennis.
I slumped in the seat and engaged in less conversation the closer we drove to the restaurant.
Though I peeked closer at her fashion to suspend my gloomy sentiments, my bestie's style statement redirected my mind. Her skirt, in season, I decided, was Persian lilac. A ribbed fabric, stretchy and clingy, shaped her abdomen and hips. The lace hemline drew my gaze to her sleek thighs. They coloured divine because of her tennis workout yesterday. Coral's white sneakers reminded me of the game and its conclusion.
As she changed gears, her blouse stirred flimsy, a near-flawless match to her skirt. Her blouse floated over her upper body in contrast to the tight-shaped dress. I loved the darker purple buttons on the blouse and the neat cut of the short sleeves. So practical. No need to roll her sleeves when making salami.
Coral and I entered a bustling Il Piacere.
Ruby's mum buzzed and hummed in her restaurant kitchen. Arianna loved food preparation and sharing the unpretentious pleasures of life. She greeted us and dispensed her usual warmth — pinching my cheeks. Ruby, at a distance, appeared baffled. Not at her mother's affection distributed to me. Rather, Coral's unexpected presence.
The huge kitchen glowed—the sparkle of ultra-quality stainless steel and copper pots and pans. Then, smells and colours hit my senses. On benches, piles of fatty pork, a mountain of sea salt, heaps of cracked white pepper, sweet paprika, and dried chilli flakes.
Ruby worked unpaired, reserved for me.
Arianna netted my hair and my workstation unstated; I joined the brunette.
Coral grabbed a hairnet.
Ruby's mum was shrill, "No!"
Arianna's hands flew high, near aghast. She refused to net Coral's peerless hair. Instead, she allocated the golden girl the 'social job.' A food platter and wine to serve the helpers working hard.
Ruby managed the slightest of nods as I joined her. Her hands mixed deep in a large stainless steel bowl. I enjoyed the bold colour in her basin and her Italian grandmother's secret sauce; it smelt divine. My support role to Ruby involved grinding chunks of meat to add to her mixture. Easy, and as I ground, I followed Coral's movements. The golden girl darted around the kitchen, filling wine glasses. Ruby kept a regular eye on her girlfriend.
I appreciated how skilfully Ruby manipulated her slender fingers. Her intuitive balance integrated the proportions—a mix of my ground meats, handfuls of spices and splashes of her grandmother's sauce. Her bowl developed a sensational, gooey, tacky consistency.
As I ground, I continued to spy on Coral's restaurant glide as Ruby heeded her girlfriend's movements less often. I supposed she expected Coral's intentions here to emerge in private later. I wondered what Ruby thought of her girlfriend's tresses tied and the heavy spray.
Behind the coasting Coral, I noticed Arianna engaged in conversation as my bestie whisked past them, managing an open bottle of wine in each hand.
Ruby's momma and her friend stopped mixing and grinding. Suddenly I tweaked to 'family' talk, centred on Ruby and me. I wished to slide beneath the bench as my knees wobbled. They shared glances in our direction, sipping their wine. I pondered: Arianna connected, Ruby and me! The invites, the pairing, the minx's appearance at the jumble sale.
Mothers rarely see the obvious in their blending quests because Ruby and I realised when we first met our different natures. Her mother's ploys unconcerned Ruby. Instead, the brunette tracked Coral with a series of swift glances. I realised the brunette lacked her usual control.
Perhaps she mulled, similar to me: What would Coral do here?
Ruby knew the golden-haired girl always planned in detail.
I thought Coral wanted to test the sincerity of Rubes' feelings towards her on her home turf.
As Coral sauntered to our bench, supporting a nibble plate, speculation netted an answer. The challenge of choice arrayed, typical Arianna jaw-dropping. I recalled savouring on prior salami days a mozzarella ready to melt in your mouth. Today, chunks lay on the platter, surrounded by zesty olives, black and green. Plus, an assortment of vegetables infused with oil or vinegar in arranged colour wheels on the plate: sweet yellow pepperoncini, succulent, delicious sun-dried tomatoes and moreish cured meats, including mouth-melting prosciutto.
Gorgeous fat streaked the pink salmon prosciutto. I helped myself to the plate, the mozzarella. Ruby mixed, her hands gummed to her fingertips. Coral invited her girlfriend to use her apron to wipe her fingers and stop. The brunette, unfazed, precision massaged her bowl's ingredients.
Coral's moment of erotic artistic flair caught Ruby and me off guard.
The brunette because it occurred in her home and her mother's domain, the restaurant kitchen. In both locations, Coral and I knew Ruby discharged the role of 'dutiful daughter.'
Coral inched to Ruby. She finger-pinched three pieces of prosciutto off the plate and spread them across the bench-top: an elongated strip, a flared slice and a stubby butt. You waste nothing this tasty. Coral stationed the pieces beside Ruby's huge ceramic bowl.
I studied my bestie's fingers as they crafted. She shaped the meats, creating a stunning representation of her labia — the pleats I glimpsed in the boathouse.
The brunette, her fingers twitching in her bowl, appreciated Coral's layout of her true-to-life sexual insignia.
My Coral had talent.
It struck me: she constructed a mental picture of the selected pieces. This intimate design wasn't something slapped together, spur of the moment. Yes, she used the available, and I remain in awe of it as a 'whole-hog' carnal statement. Unexpected from Coral, the prim girl of sex!
Ruby's eyes darted, checking where her mother hovered. Then her gaze lingered on the stunning meat masterpiece. She padlocked her eyes to her girlfriend before her blue charmers drifted to Coral's finger. The golden girl let the nail of her index finger slide over and penetrate her design. The fatty film of the cured ham allowed her fingertip to glide, flirt and skirt the texture, and slip between the gap. Ruby couldn't help herself — her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She leaned towards Coral. Her breath ached in a languid exhalation. The brunette's fingers dangled, neither in the mix nor out of her bowl.
Coral responded to her girlfriend's closeness: "I think I am ready, Rubes."
Ruby's instinct for control swung to the fore. She raised her eyes in time to spy her momma on the social hustings. It erupted riveting to witness the brunette face a dilemma. Her eyes pined; I believed her fancy was to keep Coral's offering as long as possible versus her plight, her imperative to destroy it.
Alongside Coral, I enjoyed it as Ruby squirmed.
The golden girl denied her girlfriend help. Instead, she forced Ruby's hand. Or, in this case, her mouth.
Coral indulged in a decent piece of cheese from the platter, intent on refraining from eating herself. Ruby wiped her gluey fingers on her clenched blue apron, fast and furious.
The prosciutto lay on the bench—the delicate, thin and stubby pieces.
As a creative installation — it deserved a longer showcase!
I stopped grinding as Coral and Ruby provided great theatre. The brunette's staunch Catholic mum closed fast. Ruby sighed inside her eyes because her mouth juiced. Overstuffed as she ate the prosciutto. Three slices pooled.
Coral veered between Ruby and her mother and offered Arianna a snack. Ruby's hands returned to kneading her mixture. I stared at her closed lips, her mouth a sluice of relish. The sensational meat swelled in her cheeks, presented by Coral as her private self.
Arianna patted her daughter's shoulder, not her back, avoiding choking her as she strained to gulp the meat. Her mother praised Ruby's delicious mixture in her bowl.
"Take a break, il mio tesero," pecking her daughter on her cheeks, "Go to the private garden, take your friends."
Then to me, "Enough, Luke, enough."
I rotated the grinder wheel, mincing zilch.
"Take the eats, sweetie," she directed at Coral, "and take care not to stain your gorgeous outfit."
The girl's hips moved in tandem, and Ruby gathered Coral's arm, leading her. I hesitated, aware I should wipe and clean the grinder.
"Ruby! Ruby! Leave the apron! What a mess, so not you!"
Arianna's arms flew, exasperated.
The brunette yanked off the dirty apron and whizzed past Coral to her mum. With her apron removed, I glanced at her yellow t-shirt, which was drab and faded. A top for kitchen work, not impressing a girlfriend.
I smirked, watching Ruby grip and remove her hairnet. Her hair required a comb despite her ponytail.
Coral deposited the platter on a side bench and posed, leaning in the open door frame. She loitered and directed a grin at me in response to my smirk. The golden girl's poise indicated she felt herself in front of Ruby.
Still, as I recalled yesterday, Coral led the day. She won the tennis match yet lost the piquant, seductive lead.
The brunette whipped her ponytail and scooted two steps.
"Ruby!" her mum flapped, "Your top, change your top, and brush your hair, up you go."
The family home sprawled above the restaurant. Ruby looked shot, pinned still. She lingered and eyeballed Coral. Then she bolted for the stairs in a scooting pivot, leaping two steps in a bound.
Coral, meanwhile, strolled through the external door, balancing the platter and appreciating planning minutes. As the door swung back, I rinsed the grinder.
Grinders get little pieces of meat stuck in every crevice.
Ruby vaulted down the stairs, her ponytail swinging and her hair brushed. She wore a crossover black halter top secured behind her neck, accentuating her elfin chest and tan. Sailing and riding supplied the bronzed skin. The brunette's choice suggested Ruby sought Coral today. Nothing distracted her from the base of the stairs to her exit. In her rush, a cute beret bobbed. She cocked it and pushed the door open.
Coral and Ruby's yearning gravitated them to the garden; I lingered inside, scrubbing and scouring.
Arianna nudged me.
"Go, Luke! You hold back! Be with Ruby — she likes you! I like you."
I scanned the grinder and decided it presented tidy. Ruby's mother affirmed her fondness for me.
Ruby?
I was determined to join Coral.
"Luke — the net, the net!"
Fricking hairnet!
Next, I removed and folded the apron.
Arianna said, "Take the water! Ruby raced. Quench her — her thirst!"
I grabbed a full pitcher and three glasses. Ruby's mother supplied a tray.
Scanning, I noted the salami mixing was complete. The natural binding and meat cases were a job for after church tomorrow — a mass Ruby no longer attended. Years ago, in high school, I imagined Ruby in the confessional. Coral had introduced the brunette to me as her new school friend. The girl who transferred to our college after mysteriously exiting a Catholic school.
Initially, I pictured Ruby stating; Father, forgive me; I have been unchaste in my words, thoughts and actions.
However, I learned the brunette derided and dismissed the word, sorry.
I never visualised Ruby engaged with contrition. It was easier to picture her penance as rearranging the candle in a naughty phallic homage.
I believed Coral, the truer Catholic in spirit, as I later tackled my best friend's hell after the Granville train disaster. I imagined her lighting eighty-three candles — one for each fatality, a small, steady flame. In addition, I picture Coral lighting matches because she smoked cigarettes after the horrendous derailment.
My mind sails to Ruby's on a long-ago Saturday of salami making.
The petite minx, adjusting her red beret, a gift from Coral, hurried to the family garden.
I entered the private enclave to follow my golden girl.
My conscience coaxed: leave them be.
My ego directed me to my excuse—the water in my hands.