She had ordered pumpkin pie, but had been puncturing it with her fork ever

since that blonde woman had walked past. She sat and stamped fork tracks

into the smooth orange top of the pie. The whipped topping had glopped off

to the side, where it lay forlorn and misshapen on the plate.

He had looked at the blonde. He couldn’t help himself. She’d been wearing

red, and his eyes were drawn to the color, vibrant and passionate. The

dress peeled away from the woman’s breasts in a low V-shape, revealing two

inviting mounds of flesh which bobbled gently as she walked.

“I know what you’re thinking!” his wife whispered. She jabbed at the pie

again. He looked at her round face, her lower lip trembling, shadowing the

cleft where a chin should be.

“I’m not thinking anything,” he said. Which was completely true. He

wasn’t.

“I know who she looks like. I’m not stupid, you know!”
“I never said that you were stupid.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to say it. You don’t have to say I’m stupid or ugly,

or that I have no talents. You don’t have to say any of it out loud.” She

flung the fork onto her plate, where it clattered noisily as a blob of

whipped cream flew up and attached itself to her cheek.

“Wait a minute! I’m just –”

“You’re just sorry you can’t have her! I know! I know all about the male

fantasy! You know, I could just as easily dress up in those gowns! I

could cut my hair! I could stand up there, walk over, turn letters.” Her

arms flew up in violent pantomime. She clapped her hands together

prissily, cocking her head in an exaggerated attempt at cuteness. The

white spot on her face began to sag a little.

The waiter approached, smiling, then he paused. The smile disappeared as

he abruptly changed direction and strode back into the kitchen.

“Oh, come on now. Let’s just have a nice, quiet dessert here.”

“Have dessert with you, while you think about someone else?” she shrieked.

“So I’m not 100 pounds! So I’m not blonde!” She flung her napkin on the

table. He watched in fascination as purple veins transformed her forehead

into a road map, pulsing, bulging and then disappearing. She leaned toward

him, her large bosom dragging through the whipped topping. Her fingernails

clutched the table cloth. “So I’m not Vanna Fucking White!”

She rose from the table, hefting her chair backwards. She flung her purse

over her shoulder and stormed out. He sighed, rubbing his hands together.

As he reached for his wine glass, he stared straight ahead and whispered,

“Try another spin.”