There Was No More Bavarian Mustard
That’s the thing with pretzels
“Give me that Pretzel, Hermann! Give it to me, NOW! I’m haaaaaaangry.”
“I can’t, Rick. I wish I could. I hate to see you like this. But I can’t.”
“What the heck, Hermann?! WHY?”
Rick isn’t going to like it. I remember being in the supermarket, facing the correct shelf, and then, nothing. I didn’t buy it. Something had distracted me.
“We’re out of Bavarian mustard, Rick. I’m so sorry.”
Rick doesn’t utter a sound. His mouth stays open as his eyes close and his head tilts down. I know he’s trying to contain the volcanic rage boiling inside his guts. I appreciate the gesture, even if his chances of success are a big fat zero. We’ve been there before, and the ugliness of it still makes me shiver three years later.
How did I forget the Bavarian mustard?
I’m not going to like what’s coming next. I know that from experience.
Three years earlier, I had wanted to organize something special to celebrate our first anniversary. We were still in the passionate love phase back then, but I already knew it would be till death do us part between Rick and me. Death, or Rick.
The something special was a 3-stranded pretzel knot. In my mathematical — borderline autistic — mind, it was a stern invitation for a threesome with our friend, Fintushel.
The down-to-earth Rick didn’t get the obscure reference. In retrospect, I could understand why mathematical topological innuendos weren’t the best way to invite one’s boyfriend to a threesome. My Ph.D. candidate had found the joke funny, but then, she found all my jokes funny. It was part of her job.
Matter-of-fact Rick thought I was offering him one of his favorite delicacies — the other being Bavarian mustard, which I didn’t know existed and therefore hadn’t bought.
Practical Rick didn’t take well the lack of Bavarian mustard. He decided to cut the last knuckle on my left little finger, mince it, mix it with my blood, and spread it on the 3-stranded pretzel knot.
I thought I had learned my mistake.
Rick opens his eyes. His sternness is scary.
“You know what I’m going to do, Hermann. You understand I don’t have a choice, right? It makes me sad, Hermann. Do you know why? Because it’s the last knuckle on your little finger. Next is your ring finger, and I don’t want you to lose your wedding ring.”
This is a work of fiction in response to the unexpected prompt. It was inspired by a tweet from Richard Steele.
Here’s one of his stories for your reading pleasure. Don’t forget to bring the Bavarian mustard.
