A La Carte

(For Erin)

She looked so demure and

prim on his arm as they were

shown to their table, so much the

Midwest housewife a little

overwhelmed with London, her

mouth tightly closed

unnaturally silent.

The waiter proferred menus but

addressed the male as is their

wont so there was no

respite for her as he

ordered aperitifs watching her

mouth twitch and moue,

perusing the menu avidly,

avoiding eyes.

Her husband was stuck in his

conference, so he had

plenty of time to enjoy the

wife dying to be dirty, and his

instructions had been

explicit—that she could only

swallow the gift he’d given her when

directly addressed.

He knew that moment had

arrived as the waiter came to

take their order: “Madam,

what would you like?” and he saw her

throat pulse and a

wicked glint in her eye,

“I think I have a

taste for oysters tonight.”