Her Curves and Ways

Although he’d quickly proved himself adept

at many things, her newly hired handyman’s

command of the vernacular was not spectacular.

When she expressed the wish to be adorned

and dressed revealingly – in other words, to be

a “dish” – the culture Phlumb had come from

only knew the word as meaning shallow bowl

for ice cream, say, or pudding – or a synecdoche

referring, like a trope (re: literary terms, he was

no dope) to what was in the dish to eat. They’d

left whatever else “dish” intimated out. He asked

her (of the two he knew) which dish she meant.

She bent her little pinkie in an answer, as she

glanced at Phlumb and lifted up what she referred

to as “my drinkie”: she favored gin, and liked to drink it

neat. She didn’t miss a beat. She lent to Phlumb

a little smile and wink: “I mean to be a treat. I mean

to be delish.” She got her wish. He served her up

with relish, all embellished, not unflatteringly on

a platter: at first sight of which somebody (from his

culture not from hers) became so quickly famished

for her curves and ways, he slurped her down before

she could convey what we must now presume

she’d have preferred to howl instead of merely say.

Of course, as far as Phlumb knew, he obligingly had

done exactly what she’d asked him to. He queried

Phlamb, his countryman: had he enjoyed the dish?

Phlamb loved to eat. “She looked a treat,” Phlamb

began. “But oh, she tasted more than I’d have

wished like cuttlefish.” Neither Phlumb nor Phlamb

had had a clue how much she’d wanted to be

touched and cuddled, not ingested. The whole thing

would have ended in a muddled mess if Phlamb

had not looked back again, appraisingly, at Phlumb,  

deciding he looked rather yummy. Phlumb is now –

well, we don’t have to tell you in whose tummy.

.