[fiction] Asparagus

[digitaldiscipline]

Dominque and I had enjoyed rather too much of the exquisit apertif offering, both because the sommelier was making eyes at her, and to rid ourselves of the memory and taste of Paolo's latest extemporaneous culinary endeavor - something involving smelt roe, asparagus swords (which he swore vigorously were distinct from asparagus spears), and parsnip wedges garnished with endive.  It was nearly enough to make me wish Justine  were still in the kitchen at Le Bon Mot, but when rehab calls, there's not much one can do and remain clear of Page Six.

We settled further into the Giorgio loveseat to take in a bit of pomo farce, something called "The Organ-Grinder's (My) Bitch," which Ramon and Lucille had both raved about over curried yams the previous Tuesday.  I anticipated a lot of subtly broad stereotypes about Depression-era Brooklyn, and I suspect Dominique was hoping for something a bit more risque.  We'd made the customary wager on things, of course.

She won, in spades.  An unrelenting pastiche of homoeroricism, set to a vintage music box, entirely bereft of dialogue.  It was carried off well, of course, but I was troubled by the zeal with which Dominque hummed the signature melody as we rode in the back of the Lincoln, and the way she kept looking at me, as if she were envisioning me wearing the prehensile tail.

Comments

[david-deacon.livejournal.com]

Good control of tone, good control of word choice.

If you're looking for the next word: "Interstate."

[mpeace.livejournal.com]

I'd love to see your coworker that has trouble comprehending your emails try to read this.

the way she kept looking at me, as if she were envisioning me wearing the prehensile tail.

They say to write what you know... Taking that advice to heart, eh? Good job! ;) *ducks*giggles*runs*

[etcet.livejournal.com]

pbpbpbptttt.

this, from a photojournalist of the lingual proclivities of the intoxicated. . . *poke*

[etcet.livejournal.com]

My homage to an excellent bit of satire called "Islington"