A Short Story About Carbonara.
“Ciao ciao!” Antonio’s voice rang through our tiny apartment.
“In here,” I called flatly, refilling my wine glass.
Antonio sauntered in, observed the culinary carnage on every available inch of the kitchen counter, and turned to me.
“Bad day?” he smirked.
“I made dinner.” I pointed to the steaming bowls on the table in front of me. “Or tried to, at least.”
Antonio looked at them, then back to me. “Is it…?”
I nodded.
As far as I could tell, my boyfriend subsisted entirely on cigarettes and black coffee. The only time I ever saw him get excited about food was when he was talking about his Nonna’s carbonara.
“I wish you could’ve met her,” he told me once. “She would have loved you.”
When I decided to cook him a meal to celebrate our one-year anniversary, there was only one dish I was ever going to make.
Antonio planted a kiss on my cheek and sat down opposite me. For a moment, his big stupid grin made me forget that I was supposed to be feeling sorry for myself. He picked up his fork, then looked at me.
“Real, or British?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Real. No cream, no garlic. Just pecorino and eggs.”
“Full marks to you!” He winked at me. “Is it guanciale, too?”
“It was supposed to be.”
“What happened?”
After a morning’s frantic Googling I’d found an Italian butcher that sold the stuff for a fortune. I remembered carrying it on the Tube like a salt-cured baby; watching it fly out of my hands when I tripped on my shoelace, metres away from my front door; the Alsatian running away with it clamped in its jaws.
“I got pancetta from the shop instead.”
“That’s still good!” he said, twirling his fork around his bowl. “This pasta looks fresh, too!” he added.
I snuck a glance at the bin, where a tangle of poorly-formed spaghetti strands lay like a massacre of snakes. “Nope. That’s from the shop, too.”
Antonio lifted his fork to his mouth with relish. Then he made a strange choking noise, swallowed, and drained half his wine glass in one go.
“Tell me,” he croaked. “The water. You put salt in?”
I nodded. “Come la mare.”
“Il mare. And you know that’s just an expression?”
“I do now.”
Suddenly my eyes were as salty as il mare. I pushed my bowl away and dropped my head down on the table. Antonio’s chair scraped, and then I heard him kneel down next to me.
“What is it, love?” he said gently.
“I messed up your favourite dinner,” I mumbled into the table.
I felt his hands lifting my head. He wiped my cheeks with his thumbs and pulled me close. I could taste the espresso on his lips.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s perfect. How can I ever repay you for this?”
I nuzzled into the crook of his neck.
“Just promise me you’ll never ask if we can get a dog.”
You may remember that back in August I wrote about taking part in NYC Midnight’s flash fiction competition, where I was tasked with coming up with a 500-word short story in jut 48 hours. Well, I got through to the second round!
My second story has been completed and is awaiting judgment, and I’m finally allowed to share my first. That’s what you’ve just read.
Each contestant was given a genre, an action, and an object that had to feature in the story. Mine were Romantic comedy / Passing a test / Pasta. So I wrote a story about my favourite dish in the whole world.
Phil W. Bayles 
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