Extract of

The Last Supper

First appeared in BRAND (03) literary magazine

© Tom J Vowler 2007

They remembered the meal now as if it were a long-deceased friend. Some detail was embellished or forgotten, some flavours exaggerated. A course’s description could still just about produce a glow in them. They tried to trick their woolly brains into conjuring the smells and colours. With no reference beyond a guess at the number of sunsets and rises, it was probably five weeks since they had consumed it, and nothing but water and each other had touched their lips since.

It had been exciting planning it, the knowledge it would be the last food their bodies and minds experienced proved both thrilling and overwhelming. They decided a day apart considering what to cook was necessary, before choosing the final dishes. He wanted monkfish, roasted in a caramel glaze. Her list opened with a rack of lamb, sauté artichokes with an almond tarragon dressing. He made a case for seared wild sea bass. She teased him, saying they could eat things that lived on land too.

He smiled and said: ‘Duck breast in a red wine sauce.’

She squealed with delight: ‘A carpaccio of beef fillet with a celeriac rémoulade and parmesan crisps.’

His piece of paper, once unfolded, said starter and dessert, meaning hers said main course. They shopped separately, prepared and cooked in silence. All other food in the house was collected and binned outside. Before serving, they began the seclusion. Both doors were double locked. The keys, along with those from the windows, were placed one at a time in the vice and bent out of recognition. He laid them in his palm and walked into the kitchen, showing her the contorted metallic sculpture. She smiled.

The letter box was glued shut. The windows were covered with newspaper, as they both took a last look at the world.