Black grape

Even after the ribs, Mike’s stomach was still rumbling. As soon as his wife went to the ladies, he leaned over the restaurant table, scooped the remaining two pieces of chicken from her Caesar Salad into his mouth, washed them down with Coors and waved the waiter over for the dessert menu.

Having checked nobody was watching, he sucked the serrated blade of her knife clean of residue before turning his attention to the waiter, who collected the now empty plates and handed him the menu.

“I can recommend the lemon meringue,” said the waiter.

Mike nodded. But the young buck didn’t look like the kind of person who knew much about desserts. Judging by his build he struck Mike as more of a protein shake guy.

The menu was displayed in some fancy joined up writing, but he soon identified the collection of F and Es in banoffee. It would be a toss-up between that and the Knickerbocker Glory. Or the chocolate brownie, depending on the ice cream choices. Although, he wasn’t ruling out the strawberry cheesecake.

He wasn’t sure how long his wife Debbie had been sitting opposite him when she faux coughed to get his attention.

“I was just looking, alright?” he said.

“Michael, what are you doing? You know what the doctors said.”

“Deb, I don’t remember the doctors saying anything about not enjoying life.”

She gave him a hard stare.

Mike didn’t remember anything the doctors had said, not since he’d had the stent fitted. The latest news was a variation on the same theme. His dad was 62 and stoking the family barbecue on a Sunday afternoon in July when his ticker gave up – Mike thought his collapse was one of his practical jokes. His grandad was on his knees tending to his geraniums when he left the world aged 58. Life was a ticking clock, so why couldn’t his wife just do the math and enjoy what life they had together?

But his eating and weight had become a concern for her. For Mike, it wasn’t the eating that was the problem, it was her constant commentary on it. Who did she think she was marrying when she said yes 12 years ago at a Holiday Inn to a man who undid his belt to enable him to chow down on his third helping from the buffet? He was never going to look like their waiter friend here no matter how much quinoa and flaxseed he ate. Not that he ever did.

The recent walking holiday in the Cotswolds was a disaster, for the daily steps target Debbie had set him at least. She wanted to sight see, he preferred looking at the bottom of a glass. Having tweaked his back on day two, by day four he was on first name terms with the hotel bar staff, while she accompanied a group of ramblers to walk the local countryside.

There was no action at night either. His back flared up laying down on the saggy mattress, instead having to sleep on the more forgiving hard wood floor. That holiday summed their marriage up, Alone together. No sex, but Mike still had a pretty good time by himself. Something Debbie hadn’t failed to notice.

Deb sighed. “Ok, get a dessert, we can share,” she said.

“Share?” said Mike.

“Yes, share, do you remember what that means?”

“I think you’re confusing sharing with control.”

“I’m trying to save you, Mike.”

“From what?”

“Forget it, have a bloody dessert.”

The waiter arrived at their table.

“Ready to order?” he asked.

“Ok, I think I’ll have the cheese board,” said Debbie.

Mike sniggered and looked at waiter, who returned a smile revealing two rows of teeth as neat and white as new piano keys.

“Does the cheese come with any fruit?” She asked.

“Grapes, madam,” said the waiter. “And for sir?”

“Does the banoffee come with ice-cream?” Asked Mike.

The waiter nodded.

“That’s what I’ll have then, with chocolate ice-cream please,” said Mike.

The married couple sat in silence until the waiter returned with their food.

Debbie broke the silence while watching Mike eat.

“It’s not a race,” she said.

“It is Debs. A short one where the finish line comes at you fast whether you like it or not.”

With that he used his spoon to smear chocolate sauce around his mouth.

“You’re disgusting,” she said.

“Because I’m fat?”

“No, because you don’t care.”

“I do care. I just can’t live your life of measurements and muesli, ok. And where does it get you, anyway? A size 14 and a rod up your ass?”

Debbie looked down at her plate in silence and ate a grape. Then she turned to look at Mike, her face turning red, a guttural sound coming from deep within her. Mike watched. Debbie then began beating the table with her fist and pointing to her throat.

Mike stood up. “She’s choking,” he said. “Is there a doctor anywhere?”

People stopped eating to watch what was going on.

“What are you all looking at, can someone help for Christ’s sake?” Said Mike.

Their waiter jogged over. “I know the Heimlich Manoeuvre,” he said.

With that, he got in tight behind Debbie so they were touching. Then he threaded his arms beneath hers and lifted her to her feet before tightening them around her waist and began thrusting at her with all his might, while she gasped for air and his neat teeth were on show. 

Mike couldn’t help thinking it looked like he was fucking her. From behind too. Mike just stood there watching, like everybody else in the restaurant

The waiter went at his task gamely until Debbie’s went loose and flopped down in front of her. Another man came closer, clasped his fingers around her wrist and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “She’s dead.”

“What, are you a doctor?” Said Mike.

“An accountant,” said the man. “But there’s no pulse.”

“She can’t be dead, she does Pilates,” said Mike.

A third man came forward and asked piano toothed waiter to call an ambulance. He told Mike he was very sorry before addressing the other customers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to bring your evening to an end, but given the circumstances, we need to clear the restaurant,” he said.

The customers filed out in silence. Mike went to follow them, but the manager reached for his arm.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean you sir,” he said. This is, was, your…?”

“My wife,” said Mike. “She let me have dessert.”

The manager nodded. Mike felt ridiculous for what he’d said. That or dry humped to death by the waiter, thought Mike.

They propped her up in the chair. Mike thought she looked angry and supposed you would, dying like that in a restaurant, before you’ve even had your dessert. The manager noticed Mike looking at his half-eaten second course.

“We can give you a bag for that sir,” he said.

Mike watched the ambulance people strap his wife’s body to a stretcher and take her away to the ambulance. The waiter with the nice teeth walked towards Mike with his head bowed.

“I just want to say I’m so sorry,” he said, before reaching for a napkin and drying his eyes.

Mike nodded.

“We can take you to the hospital,” said the manager. “I guess they’ll put her in the morgue.”

Mike nodded again. Both the manager and the waiter disappeared into the kitchen to turn off all the kitchen appliances.

Mike looked around him at the empty tables. To his right was a half-full bottle of red wine still left on the table. He took a big gulp and put a discarded menu into his pocket. On the way to the hospital Mike asked the restaurant manager if they did sirloin steak with fries and mashed potatoes.