Flash

Chef’s Kiss

A baby curiously touching a man's face while he lies on grass.
“Same to you, buddy.”

He murmured “chef’s kiss” and leaned in close. 

She tilted her head. 

He kissed the duck confit.  Ardently. 

She froze, stunned. 

“Sublime rendering,”  he sighed.

She stood up, pinched her thumb and fingers together, placed them against her lips, and blew him a kiss.  “Chefs kiss yourself, tool,” she said.

***Faster than a speeding gummy, able to leap small buildings at a single bound Flash Fiction is a guaranteed page turner.

The preceding is satire. Straight up, Skippy. No warranties are expressed or implied. For life advice, try a professional. For investment tips, try a dart board. For salvation, the gentleman in the robe has been handling that portfolio for 2,000 years.