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‘In all seriousness,
what’s a meatloaf?’ He yelled
watching her back as she disappeared
around the bend, and he was amongst a crowd
who stared at him with are-you-serious glares.
Yes, he deemed them glares,
as if he had cried out something foul,
something so God-awful that he felt
in that moment, ostracised by society,
neigh, all humanity.
Yet, a voice in the corner of his mind knocked loudly,
there were many a people, in many a nations,
who would sympathise with him dearly.
After all, what really was a meatloaf,
if not loaf with meat in it?

Scratching his head, he brought out his phone,
and upon it he texted, nay pleaded for mercy,
‘Then I won’t tell you what a…’
he thought for a moment, trying to jog memory
searching in his foodie vocabulary, for a dish daring.
‘Then I won’t tell you what a Writer’s tears is!’ he pounded the keys
and sent.
Gloating, ever so slightly.
For sure, she’d have a hard time of this.

A message binged and he read, his face dropping.
‘You’re not seriously asking, are you? ‘Cause I’ll finish the rest of the bottle for you.’

He clenched his jaws tight. She had not yielded
no, not like his fantasy.
‘You suck at this!’
She messaged back promptly,
‘At least I’m not the one wondering, what the hell meatloaf is!’
And he could hear the laughter in each word, and cringed.
Now he’d have to Google it.

(I cracked myself up writing this! It was inspired, would you believe it or not.)