Dinner with Eric

Candle flames flicker from every setting, creating a dining room constellation.
Pressed white linens hang in luxurious folds, secreting away table legs.
Sensuous notes slide over one another, an unseen, suggestive serenade.
And Eric Finglethink stares deeply into my eyes over the intimate red Merlot.

The waiter approaches in his crisp white shirt and long black apron.
He bends low to my ear and, speaking softly, asks,
“Pardon me, but who’s holding the baby?”

The Milky Way arches languidly across the sky.
Lacey white caps roll into the shore riding on night-black waves.
City lights wink knowingly from the opposite shore.
And Eric Finglethink entwines his fingers with mine.

The Orca whale beaches in front of us,
its enormous black and white body rolling lazily, bringing one glassy eye to stare at me.
In a deep burbly voice it asks,
 “Pardon me, but who’s holding the baby?”

The long slow refrain of the orchestra caresses my ears, alluding to dances yet to come.
Wooden floor boards groan in hedonistic pleasure with the sacheting of leather soled feet.
Abundant skirts swirl around ankles, calves, thighs, swaying in time.
And Eric Finglethink guides me through a sumptuous tango.

The music stops and all eyes turn on me.
The leader of the band fixes me with a piercing look over the heads of the crowd and in a booming voice, asks,
 “Pardon me, but who’s holding the baby?”

The bed clothes tangle around my legs, pinning me in place.
My husband snores loudly, rolls over and nearly wakes.
The dog farts.

In the darkened room,
I lay confused, asking in a sleep-stupid voice,
“Pardon me, but WHAT BABY?
AND WHO THE HELL IS ERIC FINGLETHINK!”

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