Sugar and Spice

The Snark Zone
Lisa “Boots” Olson


Daphne poured sesame oil into the wok, watched as it swirled and pooled at the bottom. She gave it few moments to heat, then slid the marinated chicken strips down the side. She twirled the mass with the wooden spatula, salivating as the smells emerged.

“Frank is looking at us again,” Jonah commented. He pounded the cleaver through a red pepper with practiced skill.

She turned to her husband. “Nothing new about that. Where’d you put the garlic?”

He indicated her left with the cleaver. She emptied the aromatic yellow contents into the wok. They clung to the chicken, turning a deep brown in a matter of seconds. Grabbing another small glass bowl, she tossed in a small amount of minced ginger, then a sprinkling of red pepper flakes. She churned them together, and the kitchen filled with the aroma.

She added another tablespoon of oil to the mix, capped the wok and sipped from a glass of red wine. Jonah was lopping the head off broccoli with expert precision. Smiling, she crept up and ran a hand up his exposed back and into his blonde hair. The cleaver wavered.

“I can’t chop when you do that,” he said.

“Sure you can.” She massaged his scalp for a second, trailed her fingers down his backbone and cupped his buttocks.

“Knock it off, you! I’m trying to cook here!” He brandished the huge knife, chasing her away. Giggling, she washed her hands and returned to the stove.

Steam rose from the wok when she removed the lid. Adding the broccoli florets, a chopped onion, the red pepper slices, and the remainder of the marinade, she whipped the ingredients into dinner.

“You should wear an apron when you cook, you know.” His breath was warm against her neck. “You might splatter oil on yourself.”

She moved the wok to a cold burner. “I’m careful. It’s done, where’s the plates?”

He cupped one of her breasts in answer. She slapped his hand away, turned into his arms. “Hey! Dinner time!”

“That’s exactly my thought,” he licked his lips as he looked her up and down.

“I’m dessert, not dinner. Get some plates,” she smiled.

He heaped rice onto matching black china plates. She ladled the stir-fry on top, garnished it with cashews. “Want to eat in the dining room?” she asked.

“I’ll bring the wine,” he answered.

They met at the table, settled down to enjoy the repast. The doorbell rang five minutes later. They both sighed at the nightly ritual.

Motioning him to stay, Daphne went to the hall and opened it. “Frank,” she said.

“Um, hi. Got a cup of sugar I can borrow?” He’s not even inventive anymore, she thought. His eyes never lifted from her chest.

She ignored his ogling. “Sure, come in.”

They made it as far as the credenza before she felt his meaty hand palm her rear-end. She rounded on him, enraged. “Look, I don’t mind you watching us through your telescope every day, Frank. We believe the human body should be appreciated, that’s why we live as we do. And I think I’ve been fairly tolerant of your insane need for cups of sugar during dinner, as well. But grabbing my ass is outside my limits!”

Fat lips curled into a sneer. “If you are going to leave it out, I’m going to take it.”

“Get out,” Jonah threatened from behind them.

Frank folded, lowering his shoulders and backing toward the door. “Freaks!” he screamed at them when the knob was in his hand. “Dirty perverts!”

Jonah advanced, and the rotund man made a hasty exit. “You all right?” he asked.

She sighed. “Perverts, he says. He’s the one staring at us through the windows at all hours of the day. Like he’s never seen naked people before!”

“Forget him, Daph. He won’t be back for any more sugar. I’ll take care of that. C’mon, dinner’s getting cold.”

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Boots, our resident Amazon and keeper of all things fantasy (you know, like hennins and sacrificial companions), can be reached at boots[at]toasted-cheese.com. You can also find her hosting Maxim Tremendous, Perpetual Passion and Locusts and Tape.

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