I walked purposefully towards Christine, planning to rebuild recently damaged bridges.
“What?” she demanded.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?”
“You’re the one who came over here looking all macho.”
“I can’t do anything without you having a go at me. I’m trying to make an effort. I just want to talk like we used to…but it’s getting…it’s getting Rhubarb,” I replied, my anger subsiding.
“Yes, wet rhubarb.” I motioned vaguely at the rain.
“My mum and dad grow rhubarb in their garden. I don’t like the smell of it.”
To this day, I’ve not touched rhubarb, never mind custard.
Story #39 was pulled out of Drabble #2 by the request of the writer.