Shrek’s Boyfriend.
My friend Cookie said, “The Minotaur Takes A Cigarette Break,” and I countered with, “In The Hollow Of The Deep-Sea Wave.” She took a long, slow and decisive sip of her coffee. “Okay,” she said, “You win.”
“That’s very reasonable of you,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I crumbled the cinnamon biscuit that came free with my coffee in its packet, pressed the smaller bits between finger and thumb to make them into crumbs. “Just that last time we had that Marquez argument, so I assumed we weren’t playing any longer, much less that you’d allow me a win.”
“You won fair and square under the rules of the game. Now shut up and enjoy your coffee.”
I opened the biscuit wrapper and poured the crumbs over the whipped cream that topped my coffee. I took the teaspoon and ate it up greedily.
“That doesn’t get any less disgusting, you know,” Cookie said. “This should be another of those dreadful places that gives its customers wooden sticks for spoons – then you wouldn’t be able to eat off them.”
I swallowed cinnamon sugar cream. “Why can’t you eat off them?”
“Because they make your tongue do that thing. That’s why you can’t lick ice lolly sticks.”
“I can lick lolly sticks just fine, thank you. And wooden coffee spoon spatula things – are those technically spoons, do you think?”
Cookie looked up at the sky, because that was where she found most of her answers. “Well,” she said, “they don’t spoon in the traditional sense. Maybe they’re stirrers?”
“Okay. As long as they’re not spoons.” I finished eating the cream and placed the teaspoon onto a napkin, then picked up my coffee. Cookie leant back as she surveyed the courtyard housing the coffee shop.
She turned to me, tipped her head so that I could see her eyes behind her dark glasses and asked me, “Do all statues have small cocks because they’re always out in the cold?”
My laugh blew hot liquid up and over the table.
Cookie didn’t even blink.
I wiped my side of the table down. “I hate you.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s entirely reasonable.” She pushed her glasses up her nose with a fingertip. The wind took some of her hair and blew it to one side, making it look like a rolling blue wave.
Some pigeons broke the silence that we had allowed to settle over our table. Then some tourists went by.
Finally, I said, “Are you going to tell me about Shrek’s boyfriend, then?”
“Oh! Yes! Of course, you know he wanted to penis me, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Her boyfriend - it was in his eyes from the very start.”
“No, I mean, I’m sorry, but did you just use ‘penis’ as a verb?”
“Yes. It’s a new thing.”
“It is?”
“I’m starting it.”
“Great. Can I start using ‘vagina’ as a verb?”
“No, you fucking can not. Don’t be so crass.” She pushed her empty cup and plate and assorted rubbish across the table towards me, then leant her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands. “Besides, no woman ever ‘vaginaed’ a man, yet women get penised all the time. You’ll have to live with it, like we do.”
I finished the last of what was left of my coffee. “Actually, I could stand to get ‘vaginaed’ a bit, if it helps to validate the expression.”
She slapped her palms down onto the tabletop. The crockery danced. “Do you want to hear about Shrek’s boyfriend, or argue about semantics?”
“Actually, I’d like to argue about-“
“So,” Cookie talked over me. “Shrek’s boyfriend… You won’t believe this.”
She was right. I didn’t.
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