Author’s Note: This was a reject of the August Furious Fiction contest sponsored by the Australian Writer’s Centre. I hope you hate it less than they did.
****
Filbert and Millicent took their places across the table from one another.
“I’ve never done one of these Five Minute Dating Adventures before,” Millicent said.
“That’s obvious,” Filbert said, “because you have a tiny bit of spinach in your teeth.”
“It’s not spinach,” Millicent corrected.
“I’m a mustard sommelier,” Filbert said, his enthusiasm coming out in one big glob, and I know spinach when I see it.”
“Are people putting mustard on spinach these days?” Millicent asked. “Or is it the other way around? Mustard Florentine? At any rate, if I have something green and lumpy in my teeth it’s probably arugula.”
“Most women would be dizzy with embarrassment over something in their teeth at Five Minute Dating Excursions,” Filbert said, quietly hoping he could get the conversation twisted back to bragging about his occupation.
“Most women, Fil? May I call you, Fil?”
“No,” Filbert said.
Millicent smiled.
“I admire a man who is assertive, Nick,” she said.
“And I admire a woman who is not afraid to eat before a Five Minute Dating Extravaganza,” Filbert said. “In my line of work…”
“In your line of work in the world of exotic mustards, you’ve come to know all there is to know about most women?”
“No,” Filbert said, “I’m still in the dark about toilet seat lids and the obtuse concept of personal space, but I can pick out a dijon woman at a hundred paces.”
“Hmmm,” Millicent hummed, genuinely intrigued against her better judgment. “What are the physical manifestations of a woman’s attraction to a few dribbles of white wine in her condiments?”
Filbert’s smile crusted over like the nozzle of a neglected, stout plastic squeeze container.
“Well...” Filbert began, attempting to dig himself free of the conversational wreckage caused by his hyperbolic bluster.
“Take your time, Nick,” Millicent said, reaching into her purse and extricating the other half of the ham and arugula sandwich she had been enjoying before work.
She took a large bite, purposely smearing store brand neon yellow mustard across her periwinkle lips.
“Now then, my friend,” Millicent said, chewing with her mouth open, leaves of arugula flapping ungraciously, “name the store that mass produces this fine mustard adorning my delicious sandwich.”
Filbert found it grossly unfair that he was being asked to identify a mustard when its appearance had been altered by periwinkle lipstick.
He stammered, as Millicent swallowed and brandished her Five Minute Dating Security Services identification.
“You have violated your terms of service, Filbert. Section Three, Paragraph Nine. It is forbidden to falsify your occupation to your prospective matches on Five Minute Dating Services. Further, you attempted to accelerate the level of Five Minute Dating Service that you were experiencing.
You were charged for an Adventure, not an Excursion or an Extravaganza, and therefore you are temporarily banned from using our service.
Filbert swallowed glumly.
“How long am I banned?”
Millicent picked her teeth, then consulted her watch, casting a stern glare at Filbert.
“Five minutes.”
*****
Ha!