“I love your tweed, is that who you are?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said Peggy coquettishly.
He tore into the nectarine, his incisors gleaming malevolently with traces of orange fruit. She wrapped her lips around the banana and slowly pulled it down her throat in one sensuous, luscious gulp. He did the same. There was fruit piled up on the wobbly kitchen table, in a 7-foot high mound reaching to the asbestos-filled ceiling. She pulled tomatoes from the pile and threw them angrily against the wall, splattering redness against the floral wallpaper. He removed an ice pick from a kitchen drawer, and began stabbing an eggplant, more and more violently, the ice pick sticking in the imitation Danish cutting board.
He started to sniff at the tweed, disturbing his companions, who wanted to look at the Ferris wheel. “The Ferris wheel is so round,” they cooed in unison, admiring its arcs. “Don’t bring your tweed obsession into our enjoyment of the Ferris wheel!” they said sternly, moving along the boardwalk to other carnival attractions.
“What does tweed have to do with a Ferris wheel?” he asked, head full of bemusement and tweed.
For the next course, he chewed into the pig, cow, and bird remains with abandon. Her right eye gleamed with lust as the lamb parts steamed on the plate before her. She dove into the meat, incisors and molars gnashing incessantly as steam rose from her forehead. The bones and pieces of skin flew onto the floor as they gnawed and chewed feverishly.
“Well it has nothing to do with that, but we just felt that we needed to set some boundaries,” they said, perfectly willing to move their attention to other subjects, while he refocused upon Peggy’s tweed hat.