I stare at my plate and see the dead muscle of another faceless cow. I immediately think of the pressurized bolt gun meat workers use to break through the its helpless skull as if it were an eggshell. Imagine life as a cow. You know food, children, and that the people that wrench at your tits aren�t gentile. Then one day you are brought into a room painted with the blood of your grazing buddies and the tit abuser comes at you with what you hope is more food, but instead he shatters your cranium before you even know there is a concept called death. Meanwhile, more fortunate cows in India are protected by fire bombing militants that would die before letting the local McDonalds add special sauce to their Gods. Being deified by the top of the food chain�s largest religion must be comforting.

Sandra�s cologine injected lips stretch to their breaking point as the waiter sets a large shallow bowl filled with what the menu told her was peppercorn crusted black angus steak in a tangy hollandaise dressing with seasoned and saut�ed onions on the side. While I was in the bathroom, purposefully urinating on the floor and walls in protest of our service tonight, she took the liberty of ordering me the same dish knowing full well that I didn�t enjoy steak or red meat of any kind. When I inquired her choice, she playfully hid her ignorance by claiming that it was a �yummy surprise.�

The tepid plate has hardly graced the white, linen tablecloth and Sandra already has her fork dug into a bite slightly larger than the opening of her mouth. I tell the waiter �Thank you� and that he can go back to ignoring our table. This is the third time we have been to this place and the first time we have received meager service. I silently vow to never come back and consider making a call to suggest firing Mark, our server tonight.

�Aren�t you going to eat Jeremy? She asks this with a pink square inch of the cow�s thigh swishing around her tongue. �You were the one complaining you were so hungry. I�m already half way done and yours is still untouched.�

I want to tell her that the thought of eating in her presence has made me loose my appetite but decide to blame it on the distraction that is her beauty.

�Well I�ll be here for much longer that that steak, so eat up before I start to steal.�

I don�t want to cause a scene so I cut into the still bleeding piece of meat and strain to enjoy it. Although I never said once that I was hungry, I decide not to disagree with the comment in worry of hearing her voice again. She sips at her wine and as her lips purse on the slender glass, I notice that she closes her eyes and makes an almost inaudible sigh that faintly reminds me of an orgasm she once had. I suddenly become so nauseous I fear that I�ll spill my pre-dinner caesar, with handmade garlic and basil croutons, all over the already soiled table. Somehow I had chosen to forget what a sty this place was and decide that along with Mark�s absenteeism, I will mention the cleanliness as well, especially in the bathroom.

Sandra is still wearing her salmon pink gown from earlier tonight. I told her that the color would most likely distract me while I was on stage but she swore that nothing else matched with the new shoes she had bought three days prior. Fortunately, I was flawless as usual and that revolting dress didn�t interfere during the sixth movement when I turn to face the crowd while the symphony plays behind me in a breathtaking display of showmanship. Tonight was the first in a long run of concerts I am putting on to support my newest work �The Heart of Florence�. After countless nights of practice, my strings section still lacked the vivacity that I expect and I will most likely have to replace some of the stragglers.

The police profile for Mark would sound something like this: Male, twenty-five to thirty years of age, roughly six feet tall, stocky build, long blonde hair style typical to that of one of the local surfers that crowd the beaches daily, blue eyes and a tattoo of a yin and yang on inside of his right wrist. I futilely try to flag him down for a refill on my Perrier, but he seems to think that I don�t have the power to make it impossible for him to make his rent this month. I brandish the Monte Blanc out of my coat pocket and begin making a list on my napkin.

I stare at her plate and then back at mine and see that we are both left with nothing but the gunpowder-sized peppercorns that were too spicy to ingest. I quickly finish my parliament and extinguish the lit butt into the table since Mark never brought me my ashtray. I mark the list. Out of matches, I grab the candle in the center of the table and light another composer keeper. As I try to exhale it slowly into her still moving face, the air conditioning from above runs interference and makes me feel more helpless than before. I finger the slim vile in my pocket and wait patiently for desert.

�Did you hear that Dick Clark is starting a new makeup line? I read that in Cosmo recently. I say about time, he owes it everyone to pass on those youthful secrets he seems to have.� This stunningly comes out of Sandra�s mouth without one shred of embarrassment.

Her shrill voice makes me frantically try to remember why I didn�t leave her in the car with some sort of easy to swallow plastic toy. About to loose my cool, I take another drag off my parliament and the mint smoke lowers my eyelids to half shut. I stab the last cube of streak but as I chew, the name Upton Sinclair enters my mind and I almost choke. I look around for Mark but he is off nursing the regulars. I mark the list.

Holding a platter with assorted treats he says, �Would you two be interested in a desert of any kind tonight?�

�I�m not going to tip you more if that�s what you�re getting at.�

�Excuse me sir?� He says while swallowing back hard, knowing he heard what I said.

�Nothing, just wondering why you still haven�t cleared our plates.�

�My apologies, sir, would you still care for a desert or coffee?�

I glance at the reflective tray balanced on his tanned palm; strawberry cheesecake with a soft graham cracker crust, tiramisu, warm apple cobbler with clove ice cream, and triple dipped chocolate mousse explosion with mint flakes. �The apple cobbler, regular for me, and a decaf for the lady. I also suggest bringing an ashtray unless you want me to keep putting out my cigarettes in the table.�

�Yes sir, right away.�

He cowers off; I mark the list. My hands shake a bit and I drop my next parliament on the deep red carpet. Candles light the large open room with only the help of a lone chandelier hanging from the high ceiling in the pit of where the roof steeples. The golden tasseled crimson drapes cover the four, twenty feet tall, six feet wide windows on each side of the room. The kitchen is in full view from my seat and I can clearly see the scowl on Mark�s face as he puts in our order.

The woman behind me comes back from the bathroom freshened up and is now wearing the same enthralling scent as my lead cellist who, at my request, continuously used it the previous Saturday night at the Whole Year Inn motel on the corner of fifty-fifth and Torrington. After tonight, I will no longer have to worry about Sandra finding room service charges on my credit card statements and lipstick on my collar. I finger the vial in my pocket and wait for desert.

Mark arrives balancing a black tray with a corked center circle holding my ashtray and our desert. As he places the chilled plate in the center of the round table, I ask, �Excuse me�Mark is it? Yes, umm, how did you get this job?�

�I applied for it,� he stutters confusedly. �I don�t understand sir.�

�Mark, I ordered an apple cobbler. From the looks of things here, either this particular apple cobbler has sat out so long that it has rotted into a cake slice sized tumor, or this is chocolate mousse. Now which of the two is it?�

While exhaling heavily, �It�s chocolate mousse.�

�Well that�s a good thing Mark,� I blurt excitedly, partially cutting him off. �Because if it was a tumor, I would have to report this place to the FDA for federal inspection. I don�t like to eat filth Mark, while you might get some sensual release from it, the general populous doesn�t.� Sandra looks at the floor, knowing not to cut me off.

�I�m sorry sir, it was an honest mistake. I�ll have your cobbler out in a moment.�

�No Mark, I don�t think that�s good enough. Tell you what sporto,� I take a drag and put out the burning end next to the unused ashtray. �Why don�t be you do yourself a favor and get me manager.�

�Sir there is no reason to be upset, I said I was sorry, I�ll get you��

I cut him off. �Did you hear me simian? Get him now or I�ll see to it that you aren�t qualified enough to beg for my fucking change.�

He exits; I mark the list, light a new parliament, and take a bite of the moist chocolate tumor. Sandra speaks.

�Jeremy, don�t you think you�re taking this a bit far?�

I hesitate in my response, too busy trying to remove the mint flakes from between my bicuspids. �Darling, let me take care of this. I don�t want you to worry your pretty little head over something so trivial. Everything is under control.�

�Well I just don�t want you to hurt his feelings, he seems like a nice young man.�

I contemplate knocking over the candle and lighting my next cigarette off the flames of that lovely gown.

A five and a half foot tall portly man with a gray Italian silk suit and moustache approaches the table. �What seems to be the problem sir?� He spouts with the juiciness of his pear like figure.

�Other than your staff ruining our evening, nothing. Nothing at all.� I give him the list.

He reads it and exhales. �Well sir, this will all be taken care of, I�m terribly sorry for the inconvenience. Desert and coffee are on us tonight. I�ll have those out for you immediately.� He storms back to the kitchen and I can see Mark being reprimanded. I take another bite of the tumor.

Coffee comes and Mark can barely look me in the eye. He navigates through the myriad of drinks and dishes on his platter and sets down the small white saucers. He takes the now empty plate off the table and replaces it with the steaming apple cobbler. He scoots off without saying a word. �How�s unemployment treating you?� I yell but he doesn�t hear me. Sandra begins to inhale the fresh Vermont cinnamon apples and I take the initiative to fix her coffee for her. I cup the sweaty vile in my palm and fill her cup with two creams and a full packet of sweet n� low then repeat the same process with my cup.

�Sandra honey, did you notice the wonderful 18th century art on the wall behind you?� I point to the 8x10 foot picture of an old man having a bowl of soup. A waste of time and paint.

�Ooh! Where?� As she turns, I unscrew the vial and pour its contents into her creamy cup.

�I�ve got to go to the bathroom, I�ll be right back.� I stand up, walk towards the kitchen, and through the door labeled �Gents�. The white marble floor makes the room seem cold and as I look at myself in the mirror, I notice that I have a small bit of hollandaise sauce griping to my cheek that has most likely been there the entire meal. I wipe it off, realize Sandra had chosen to not inform me of its presence, and drop the empty vial in the trash receptacle to my left. I wash my hands, check my hair and tie in the mirror, and return to the table.

I come back to find Sandra is still staring at the soup man and hasn�t even finished the cobbler. I combine a healthy scoop of ice cream and warm apples and let it coat the inside of my mouth, then I wash it down with my coffee that has already turned cold. Sandra turns around and I watch intently as she downs her first sip. She takes her fork and shovels another bite into her still full mouth.

�Honey, you were right about complaining,� Her voice strains to break through the thick batter of apples, crust and coffee. �He didn�t even get our drinks right, he came back after you went to the bathroom and switched them. I�m so glad too, you know how much I hate regular.�