collop - \KAH-lup\
1 :: a small piece or slice especially of meat
2 : a fold of fat flesh
She'd met him in a coffee shop. Not a chain, because he would never buy coffee from a chain. No, it was one of those local places, with bad art on the walls and spotty wifi. It had character. He only went to places that had character.
She first noticed his shoes, scuffed and worn DMs with stickers misaligned on the toes. By the time she saw his eyes, blue of course, she was smitten. She went back to the coffee shop every day for two weeks before she asked him his name.
He introduces her to all kinds of wonderful things. Bands with lengthy names played on vinyl; hummus with olives; poetry slams. They go to the art cinema and watch foreign films. She's never been happier.
He's vegan and he teaches her about sustainable food, animal cruelty and healthy living. She reads the books and watches the movies. She is a convert.
He tells her he loves her.
They live together in a studio apartment and he cooks for them every night. She loves his fajitas and she loves him too. She also has a secret.
On Friday mornings, when he leaves for work early she slinks out once he's gone. She walks down their block until she can smell the distinctive aroma of bacon sizzling. Around the corner is the diner. It's dirty, old, it doesn't even have character, not really. She's drawn in though. Her secret affair is a plate of pancakes with syrup and a hearty helping of bacon on the side.
She won't see him for several hours, but she chews several sticks of gum after to rid herself of the smell of unsustainable, cruel, bacon.
She loves him. When she sits back, chewing thoughtfully in a dim booth at the diner, she thinks that no two people can have absolutely everything in common.
Across town, before he goes to work, he buys a sausage and egg McMuffin, wolfing it down guiltily.