The prawns had been slow fried such that the exterior batter was crisp. I imagined the interior must be still juicy. It looked so tempting. I picked it up. Aargh! It was so hot. I bounced it around in my palms and dropped it into the plate. I picked it up again slowly and tenderly sunk my teeth into it. The juices melted in my mouth. It was so perfectly done that I realised only after half an hour that I had eaten more than two dozens of king size prawns – wiping out an entire extended family within 30 minutes.
It felt divine, as long as it lasted. Then, came the after effects. I felt as if I had taken a neat glass of vodka after a bottle of brandy. The world was swimming and my eyes longed for the pillow. I was not just feeling dizzy but also tizzy, dippy, ditsy and tippy. I lay down on the bed. Then, I realised all those round little prawns were actually swimming inside me, just below my throat. I had to get up.
I sat up on the bed and patted my tummy. Out came a burp so loud that my hand instinctively tried to cover my mouth. That was relief. As the air moved out, the suction pulled in all those fishes right into the tummy. I smiled and lay back on the pillow. ‘Men are better cooks,’ I thought to myself, ‘and things do taste better when it is the husband who makes them.’ After that, I slept on peacefully as the digestive juices won the war.