The Pomegranates of Time

Here we are.

Still we search for those moments we can use as the pomegranates of time, or – at least the pomegranates of a fortnight ago. Even when we were young and we had access to all the mandarin segments our over-fevered erotic imaginings would allow, we still had no place to put the pineapple, at least until your friend, Lilly, arrived and we began to experiment with the erotic possibilities of the fresh fruit salad and its use in threesomes.

Still, though I could see that look in your eyes whenever one of us would – accidentally or not – mention custard. You had, of course, by then told me of you dreams of apple crumble and your fantasies involving firemen and rhubarb tart.

I though was still dreaming dreams of desire for steamed sponge pudding and jam roly-poly and I could see that look in Lily’s eyes too whenever the conversation turned towards custard.

It was no surprise then, I suppose, when you came how that day from a hard day working deep in the filing cabinets of our local authority diversity compliance directorate to find Lily and I lying there. All still with the telltale custard stains on our bodies and on the sheets and the remains of a home-made sponge pudding in the dish on the pillow.

Of course, I begged you to stay, promised you all the apple crumble you could ever desire and Lily promised to share with you her secret family recipe for home-made custard, but it was not enough.