When that Aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,/And bathed every vyne in swich licour/Of which vertur engendred is the flour…*
“Okay, Chaucer, that’s enough Middle Earth or whatever for tonight,” he thought, exhaling.
Straining to lift the book, heavy reading seemingly adding to the already heavy weight, he placed it beside him on the couch. He closed his notebook, and placed it too beside him. In a move foreshadowing a time not yet, he pushed the couch with his hands to stand up and proceeded to the kitchen. Water cup in hand, he turned the faucet on, and confirmed a cool temperature with a rapid flick of his fingers. He nearly finished in one swig, but habit caused him to stop early and pour out the remainder. The slightest feeling of guilt pestered him as he wasted the water. “Whatever.”
As he walked back towards the couch, he eyed an open bag of tortilla chips. “Pretty sure I’m doing chips and salsa tonight,” he announced.
At first, head movement; pupils adjusting to reality next. Finally, his friend smiled.
“We finished off the salsa the other night. It’s all gone,” the friend disclosed.
“That’s fine, we still have the Pace in the fridge,” he said, knowing his friend would never stoop so low to eat, let alone serve others, bottom-shelf salsa.
Like Aesop’s cloak-removing sun, his friend’s smile only grew.
“You finished the Pace?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, there was only so much good stuff left, so I just mixed it all together. I didn’t want to run out with people over,” informed the friend.
*Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales