The greasy café window is ready for the show
A hundred different stories drifting by
Keep your eyes on the shadows lurking on the pavement
Cause no-one has any faith in the sky
They’re all actors on the stage 
Nothing appears, as it would seem
I like my coffee black, no sugar
I like my coffee black, no cream

There’s too much make-up on the waitress
So many places she’d rather be
She’s a masterpiece of abject sorrow 
Her demons will never set her free
She moves around tables taking orders
She moves around a broken dream
I’ll take my coffee black, no sugar
I’ll take my coffee black, no cream

She won’t listen to the wisdom of the young
She really doesn’t care what those boys think
There’s a secret buried behind her eyes 
Runs darker and deeper than her ink
Just more soul food for the demons of this underworld
Veiled behind a curtain of rising steam
She pours my coffee black, no sugar
She pours my coffee black, no cream

I like my coffee black, no sugar
I like my coffee black, no cream

‘Food Is Love’ by Carole Kelly, narrated by Sumara Meers.

It was inevitable that our affair would begin over a meal. We'd been flirting with food for months; sharing my homemade buttered crumpets for morning tea, dividing the last blueberry muffin from an office party and licking stolen chocolate frosting from guilty fingers. For me, it really began the day I caught you eating a greasy ham and cheese toastie out of a paper bag, while pretending to work on an advertising campaign. I loved that furtive look of orgasmic pleasure, as butter dribbled down your chin and onto your clean white shirt. 

I waited until a Friday evening, when we'd both been working late, and I made sure we were the last ones to leave the office. It was wet and arctically cold as we found ourselves out on the street together. I knew you had over an hour's commute to your North Shore home, and it was my habit to stay in town Friday nights and treat myself to a leisurely meal. With no one waiting for me in my cold apartment, it made the weekends less lonely. An innocent suggestion that you join me for dinner, as long as your wife didn't mind, was all that it took. Moments later we were cosily ensconced in a tiny Italian restaurant, that was one of my favourites. Rain battered against the steamy windows, but the restaurant was lit with fat red candles and old fashioned lamps that created an oasis of intimacy. Greedily, we both perused the menu as we savoured the robust red wine recommended by our waiter. 

We quickly agreed that a main course and a dessert was the way to go. Both of us had a weakness for sweets, and the chef's coffee tiramisu was to die for. Orders placed, it was time to become better acquainted. Although we had worked in the same office for a few months, since my transfer from Sydney, our conversations had been brief and food centric. Gentle interrogation revealed that your marriage was a disaster. Your wife was a fanatical Personal Trainer who controlled your diet and endlessly nagged you to become fitter. A huge bear of a man, you looked just perfect to me, and I quickly assured you that I didn't believe in any dietary restrictions. Gratefully, you offered me the last slice of garlic bread and I allowed you to place it in my mouth, before snapping off a piece with my sharp white teeth. Garlicky butter oozed from my lips and I licked it up lasciviously, aware of your watchful eyes. Your hands tentatively reached across the table to mine, but then were interrupted by the waiter with our mains. Luscious seafood linguine for you and fragrant spaghetti alla Puttanesca for myself. Already, I adored the way you unselfconsciously tucked the linen napkin into your collar, and immediately devoted your attention to your meal. Unusually for me, I toyed with my spaghetti, allowing our eyes to meet again as I sucked in the last slippery strands. 

Coffee and liqueurs completed our meal, and by this time it was becoming late. The waiter had twice tried to present us with the check, but we were both reluctant to leave our warm haven. Most of the candles had burnt out and the scented darkness created a greater intimacy. Our hands now lay entangled on the table, and I could feel your solid legs pressed against my own. Words had become redundant since the phone call to your indifferent wife. A major pile up on the highway, a kind work colleague providing a bed for the night, and a promise to be home tomorrow in time for a friend's birthday. Once we left the restaurant, it was a short taxi ride to my apartment and a nightcap, before tumbling into my king sized bed where I lost myself in the folds of your glorious body. 

After a full English breakfast, finishing with homemade sourdough and bitter marmalade, coffee flavoured kisses sealed our agreement. Friday nights you would 'work late,' and stay over with your helpful colleague. 

Cold winter nights gave way to balmy summer. Your wife, disgusted by your burgeoning flesh, no longer cared about your nights away. We celebrated with sticky date puddings, midnight snacks of succulent ribs and endless bottles of Shiraz. Our lovemaking became ravenous, our bodies consumed in salads of lust. Your thighs became pillars, your chest too wide for my encircling arms, as I hand fed you delicate morsels of steak tartare and spoonfuls of rich chocolate mousse. When you became breathless after our frenzied grapples, I dribbled rare brandy between your blue tinged lips, and massaged your chest with warm coconut oil. 

Your delicious corpulence eventually led to sufficient health problems to require a leave of absence from work. Gladly, I took an overdue sabbatical in order to care for you. Your wife no longer contacted you after I sent her some graphic photographs of our frenetic coupling, and I made sure to let you know that she had left town to return to her family. Now nothing distracted from our all consuming love affair. As you grew weaker, I kept up your strength with exquisite consommés laced with brandy, nourishing eggnogs made from rich duck eggs and slivers of toast laden with foie gras. Eagerly you continued to eat everything placed before you, as greed and lust slowly eradicated your common sense. Our lovemaking became more frantic as your body became less able to respond to my needs. As I rode you to completion, your wheezes and gasps had less to do with desire, and more with breathless desperation. Afterwards, I bathed your body in rosewater, and fed you bites of warm brioche soaked in honey.

Eventually, the morning came when you were no longer able to rise from our conjugal bed. Overriding your apologies, I took care of all of your personal needs, punctuated with tender kisses. Bathed and freshly dressed in soft flannel pyjamas, you lay propped up against the pillows, your pale face anxious as your breathing became more laboured. Tiny sips of icy water was all I could persuade you to take, so I lay down next to your comforting bulk with our fingers entwined and my head on your bear- like chest, listening to your great heart as it stuttered and stumbled. I must have drifted into sleep because when I awoke it was dark and your beloved body was cold. Rigor mortis had not yet set in, so I was easily able to slip my fingers from your lifeless embrace. A last kiss to your forehead, then it was time to cast sentimentality aside as there was work to do. 

The overhead light in the kitchen was harsh and clinical, you had often suggested we change it to something warmer, and the sharp edges of my well kept chef's knives glittered, as I laid them out in order on the rustic wooden table. There was comfort in the familiarity of the task and already as I pottered around the kitchen, choosing seasoning from my well stocked pantry, I was planning my next delicious encounter of love.

Thank you for listening to ‘Food Is Love’, Carole Kelly’s first story in the ‘Black, no Sugar’ series. It was narrated by Sumara Meers, 

Technical production by Tim Roebuck and John Tomkins, directed by Bryan Cutts. Series title song ‘Black, no sugar’ lyrics, vocals and guitar by Bruce Inwood, electric guitar by Tim Roebuck, and produced by Tim Roebuck. Series produced by Bryan Cutts.

Visit the series website blacknosugar.au and subscribe.