Amuse bouche... Moving In

‘Sby Sarah Caden

o,” said Jenny. “If we’re going to move in together, there are going to have to be some rules.”

This could be going anywhere, thought Tom, but it was unlikely to be anywhere good.

“So I can’t have any rubbish in the house,” Jenny said. “OK?”

“No,” Tom said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean crisps, chips and dips, biscuits, chocolate, hard sweets, jellies, cake — any of it,” Jenny said.

“But you love that stuff,” said Tom.

“That’s why I can’t have it in the house,” said Jenny. “Ever?” asked Tom. “Well, during the week, anyway,” said Jenny.

“So we could buy rubbish on Fridays?” asked Tom.

“Yeah, like, now, when I’m staying at yours or you’re at mine, it’s kind of like the weekend. It’s a treat night. So I usually buy in some rubbish, specially,” Jenny explained. “But if there’s any left over after you’ve stayed and, like, it’s the middle of the week, I bin it.”

“That’s a terrible waste,” said Tom, who wondered if he should lay down some living-together rules about waste. He hated waste.

“I know it is,” said Jenny, “and I’m not wasteful by nature, but if I didn’t bin it, I’d eat it. I just can’t have it in the house.”

“That’s grand,” Tom said. “I can do that.”

“Thanks,” Jenny said. “Otherwise I’ll be the size of a house in six months and you won’t love me any more.”

“Not possible,” Tom said, kissing her. “Oh, and bread,” Jenny said. “Bread?” asked Tom. “Yeah, like, maybe something really brown would be OK to have around during the week, because I don’t actually like brown,” Jenny said. “But no white bread. Not during the week. Do you think I’m mad?”

“No,” said Tom. “I think it’s cute. But what about sourdough? Spelt sourdough! That’s not too bad.”

“Mmmm,” said Jenny. “Maybe rye? It’s practically brown, and I doubt I’d like it. So you could have it there for yourself, if you wanted bread.”

Tom often wanted bread on a Wednesday, as it happened, when he had five-a-side straight from work and always got home starving and too late to cook.

Tom wondered if he could have a secret stash, like the hidden-away running-away money that his mother and her friends always said was crucial to a married woman’s sanity.

But the apartment they could afford to rent was small and low on storage, and Tom and Jenny weren’t ever going to lie to each other.

“That’s grand,” said Tom. “It might even be good for me.”