A Conversation Over Oysters

“Do you feel…anything?”
“I feel unsatisfied.  Couldn’t you have prepared a more substantial meal?”

“But my darling, we have everything we need to complete us—body and soul.  Strawberries, avocados, chocolate-covered almonds, a jar of honey, deer penis, and of course—oysters.”
“You overcooked the deer penis.”
“I don’t believe so.”
“You did.  It’s an amateur mistake.  I should have done the cooking tonight.”
“But darling, it’s our anniversary.  Surely I couldn’t let you slave away all day at a hot stove thereby exhausting you so that immediately after dinner you’d have to retire to bed incapable of any sort of physical or…recreational…activity.”
“But that’s what’s happens every other year.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I rather like doing the cooking.”
“But darling—“
“Perhaps you’re not a fan of my cuisine.”
“Darling, please, you know I hate the word ‘cuisine.’  It sounds like something a French whore gives you as a gift with purchase.”

“Are my cold soups no longer enticing to you?”
“Darling, cold soup is all we’ve been eating lately.”
“What would you prefer?”
“Something along the lines of what you used to cook when we first got married.  Something with a bit more…heat.”
“I can’t eat those sorts of things anymore.  Whenever I eat anything spicy, I sweat as if I’ve just run a marathon.  Perspiration goes cascading down through my bosom like a river through a valley.  I heave and pant.  I rip my clothes off just to feel the cool air soothe my overheated flesh.  I’m like an animal.”

“Who’d like some chili?”

“What?”

“I have some in the kitchen.”

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Darling, if I listened to you, how would we ever stay married?”
“Why don’t I just go make us some cold soup?”

“NO!”
“Darling!”
“Darling, I cannot eat anymore of your cold soup.  It’s soggy and lumpy and the only salt in it are the tears I supply myself.  It’s dehumanizing.”
“So you DO hate my cooking!”
“Yes.  YES!  All I ask for is a little imagination.  A little passion!  Technically, you’re unmatched.  The first time I watched you debone a pheasant I felt something stir inside me that I didn’t know I had.  But over the years, your techniques have only made you colder.  You’ve got no feeling left in you.  Your cooking leaves me hungry!”

“So you’re saying you want larger portions?”
“I WANT A NEW WIFE!”

. . . . .

“Well, you can forget it, darling.  I’m never leaving you, do you understand me?  Never.  Good luck trying to get a divorce out of me.  Good luck trying to get me to sign the papers.  You’ve called me ‘darling’ for so long, I don’t even remember what my real name is, so how can I sign anything, hm?  Have you thought about that?  You know nothing about me.  You didn’t even remember that I’m allergic to honey.  One drop of the stuff and just a few minutes later my lungs are closing up.  Before long I—“
“I didn’t forget.”

“What?”

“I didn’t forget.  That you were allergic.  That’s why I smeared the honey on everything.”
“…Darling?”
“I even put little drops of it in the oysters.”
“But…But this is…”

“Our anniversary?  Yes.  Yes, it is.  And I was hoping that just once it would end with us making love, but I guess another part of me knew that wouldn’t happen.”
“I…I feel my throat—“

“Just like I knew you wouldn’t grant me a simple divorce.”
“Can’t…breathe…”
“You see, darling?  I know you better than you think.”
“You…”

. . . . .

“Ah well, I suppose that means more for me.”