A Cheese and Pineapple Hedgehog
A Flash Fiction by Christine Collinson
I chop cheddar into cubes as the late afternoon sun burns like Venus through the kitchen blind. Have always been a stickler about this, about most things; all cubes need to be alike. “It’s only party food, Joyce,” Steven says as he passes, a sweat patch forming on his fresh shirt.
A party for a party’s sake. The worst kind, but then most of them are. As a child I’d dreaded the shrill ring of the doorbell and the first always-too-early guest. ‘They’re here!’ My heart would sink like soggy berries to the bottom of the trifle.
I load cocktail sticks with military precision. One cheese, one pineapple, one cheese, one pineapple. Nibbling on a spare fruit chunk, I push the sticks into the foil-coated melon; my final creation before the guests will arrive.
Five years married, so we had to do something. ‘It’ll be too hot for much,’ I’d said. ‘Let’s not ask loads of people.’ But Steven wanted a reason to display the new punch bowl, among other things. I wasn’t sure how we’d collected so much junk.
I place the hedgehog beside the vol-au-vents and the devilled eggs. My stomach flips at the thought of making someone ill; can’t leave anything out for too long. “The Miltons are here!” Steven calls from the hallway. Heart-sinking right on cue.
Our dining room is soon brimming with lively folk. Sipping on a vodka tonic, I hover as a miasma of chatter swirls around me. Someone is talking about Naples, which is where I’d wanted to honeymoon. “Blimey; I still don’t think cheese goes with pineapple,” Steven is saying, pulling off a cheddar cube with his teeth. The skewered fruit, dropped disdainfully back on his plate.
“But Joyce has done well with the hedgehog, hasn’t she?” Emma says, finding me with a wink.
“She should, she’s made enough of ‘em!” Steven laughs, then hiccoughs.
It’s like drowning in fondue. I step outside, then stroll across the yellowed grass to the summer-house that Steven built in our first year. He’d been terribly pleased with himself.
Lighting a cigarette, I watch the peach clouds. As I puff smoke, I briefly consider whether I’d make the same food for a ten-year party. There might be kids by then, so perhaps not.
Idly, I test some words in my head. ‘It’s not really working is it.’ ‘We’re not meant for each other, after all.’ ‘I’m leaving you.’
Steven is waving from the patio. “Joyce! Time for the toast!”
I walk back to the house and pick up a glass of Babycham; glance at the decimated table. The hedgehog has only a few chaotic spikes left. I pluck one and munch on warm pineapple; leave the cheddar on its stick. A perfect little cube, like all the rest, but I never did care much for cheese.
Like the summer’s hellish heat, I can see no end, but one day soon it will have to come.
Author: Christine Collinson is a prize-winning historical fiction author. Her debut flash collection, A Pillow of White Roses, was published in 2023 and in the same year she won the Aspects of History Short Story Award. Find her on X and Bluesky @ collinson26.
Ha, love this, especially the ways you show this couple is so badly matched in so few words. I don't think they'll be having a 10-year anniversary party...