pointless.

maybe just fruit.
the waiter comes to you, you stare at the reclining jaguar across from you, a cigarette dangling form his finely comed paw, and the waiter asks you, anything for desert.

and the selections are paraded in on a scarf of yellow silk that circumnaviagtes the room with an eerie levitation that is neither wind nor magnet, just a still sense of being, that silk belonging at a level of waist with no propulsion or support. this is where the deserts are presented. the plates royal in with tiny japanese flute fanfare: creme broo lay. german choco cao. a deep vanillish mousse. pecan pipi. sweet sugar, refined and studied. sculpted. by men.

oh these men think they gods.

but there at the end, a small dish, white and curved imperfectly, containing only a slice of starfruit, a half pear and one bursting cherry. they catch the light in new ways.

"which will you choose, monsieur"
"oh," the great cat says in his rough english accent, "oh, oh. oh. yes. the fruit dish. i will have the fruit dish. liason!"

later, as you suck on your choco mintively, you wonder why such ocelot is smiling so much bigger than you. why he is laughing at the moon, with his fingernails shining.
"a bite, will you?"
yes, yes you will. and you do. and fruit! fruit! fruit! fruit!

bells of silver on yon tongue...

dont forget fruit.
when he comes and asks the question,
dont forget.