About Bacon

It was so hot today I had to remove the pots from the window sill. The windows are the kind which open inwards, so the plants - an african violet, a strange shrub with purple leaves, and sundry others languishing and ill-kept - huddled in a cluster below the sill, dethroned for a breath of fresh air.

I leaned outside welcoming the lazy breeze infiltrating the soupy confines of the lounge, strong enough to scatter the dust particles caught in the direct sunlight, but not to stir the leaves of the relegated plants. The odour of bacon filters through from a neighbouring open window. I once knew a girl who gave up twelve years of devout vegetarianism for the smell of bacon. The smell was so pungent, she decided on the spot to abandon all her previous beliefs about the 'perils of the flesh', and try a morsel. It was the beginning of the end, really.
Now when I see rashers sizzling, the rind blistering and distorting, covered in a film of oil, I think of her mouth filling up with saliva.