Ms. Dolores Munch was seated at her table in the restaurant and working on the day’s crossword puzzle. Although it was a rather difficult one it was nothing she couldn’t vanquish by the end of lunch. The eraser on the end of her pencil was poised against her lips and bore a patina of spittle. Low conversations and the sounds of clinking stemware came wafting in from the kitchen but for the most part Ms. Dolores Munch had the dining room to herself.
Her hair was spun up prim and frosted, twenty years out-of-style and therefore respectable. A pair of plain spectacles sat cushioned upon her cheeks and behind them blinked two small and remarkable eyes, remarkable for how little they betrayed of the thoughts going on behind them. She wore flowered petticoats that had once been bright, but the years had rolled by and brought the pounds with them, spreading and distorting the prints until they were vague and had no shape. Beneath her petticoats her knees made soft mounds. A fresh linen lay in her lap like a tablecloth for a summer picnic.
The answer for seventeen across had just popped into her head and she was carefully filling the little boxes with letters when her waiter came over to take her order. His name was Victor and his tuxedo was an excellent one. He wore a subtle perfume and an artful smile. On the menu Dolores pointed to the chowder and for her entrée she selected the Cornish hen with the crème brulee for dessert.
“Will that be all for you Madam?” inquired the waiter. His eyes twinkled as he filled her water from his pitcher.
Dolores hesitated and made a little cough into her fist. Then she pointed to the next page and nodded.
“The salmon Madam? You would like that instead?” But Dolores began to shake her head and Victor knew what she wanted at once, for he was a skilled waiter and knew the finer points in customer satisfaction. “A taste of both, perhaps, Ms…?” he looked at her nametag, “Munch? Very good! No trouble at all!” He marked the order on his tablet and went off in scrupulous haste to see that it was fulfilled.
But when Victor returned with the victuals he saw that her table was already becoming a busy one. There was a bowl of beets and mashed potatoes too; she must have gone off and found the serving tray while he was absent. To her left there was a basket filled with crescent rolls, packets of butter and honey and jam, while off to her other side lay a gravy boat filled to the brim. A shadow of doubt flitted across Victor’s face as he lowered the hen against the gravy. “Had you changed your mind, Ms. Munch?” But the happy sighing noise she made told him that she had not.
Victor beamed and Dolores beamed back. He was about to attend to other things with a satisfied heart when he looked down at her silverware and a thought struck him. It was all left untouched and Ms. Munch looked like she might be waiting for something.
“Is there something…?” Victor mouthed, and then he shut it again. He decided to take a chance.
“Do you want some help with all of that?” There was really hardly anyone left in the restaurant. Most of the other patrons had already gone off to their mid-afternoon naps.
Dolores Munch looked down at her lap and formed a little round opening with her lips.
A runnel of sweat coursed down Victor’s cheek. He had been bustling about all day. “I’d be glad to help you Ms. Munch!” Gently he broke off a piece from one of the crescent rolls and daubed it with a bit of jam. Then he put it in the waiting mouth of Dolores Munch and let his fingers follow after it for a bit. There was a pleasant murmur and Victor felt himself smiling.
“My pleasure Ms. Munch. My pleasure.” Without her asking he had taken the rest of the roll and smeared it with a generous dollop of butter. The moment her mouth came open again he pressed the bread ever so gently against it, swabbed it against her chin and watched the butter drip down against her neck. He was standing over her now and leaning down a bit so as not to miss the expression in her eyes. A fleeting thought told him he should check on his other tables but he waved that thought away and decided he did not care.
Dolores had taken one of her idle hands and pressed it against Victor’s waist. She scrabbled at the tablecloth with the other one and came up with the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“My, Ms. Munch…” Victor murmured. “We are very hungry today, aren’t we…” as he slathered a spoonful into her mouth that she sucked down expertly, and then another one, and another one, and soon the bowl was almost empty just like that, and they had moved on to the salmon and the minced pie and the leftover ham which he had gathered from the next table over in a moment of inspiration, not to mention the figs and dates and raisin pudding he had thrown in at no extra charge, and as they progressed Victor could not help but sense that this Ms. Munch was in fact showing off, that in fact she was a renowned and prodigious eater he had never heard of before even though everyone else had, and that tonight she was performing for an audience of one, only one, and if he was up to the challenge he would be dwarfed in the greatness of this ample woman.
Suddenly a long and protracted moan fell out from the lips of Ms. Dolores Munch. She grabbed Victor by his lapel and looked up at him with eyes full of lust.
“I will do my best to serve you, Ms. Munch. I will do my very best.”
Victor raised his right leg and stepped over her so that he faced her with his hips. Her petticoats were swelling in front of him and buried deep he saw a wetness spreading where he knew her quim to be. Her jowls trembled with pleasure as he scooped up gobs of crème brulee and started spreading it against her mouth.
“Is it… delicious… Ms. Munch?… Does it taste good enough for you…?” He leaned forward into her lap and started to croon as Dolores Munch moaned a second time. The sweat was beading on his brow and as he pulled at his tuxedo that thick grateful face looked up at him and rolled its tongue against his finger.
An electric thrill coursed through Victor’s limbs. He felt there was a sense of no turning back, that if he gave any more he would have to give up everything he had. He felt the tongue wandering up against his second knuckle, felt the sweet, sticky breath caress his palm and with the heat rising in his heart he knew what his decision would be. The thought brought tears to his eyes as all his years of training flashed before him, all the restaurants and humble kitchens and weddings and stately dinners and how this would be the end of all that, how there would be no more of that after this but it would be a fitting end, really, it was what he had wanted all along.
There came a ripping sound as he tore off his sleeve to expose his arm. It glistened beneath the dining lights as he squeezed out one and then two packets of butter onto his wrist, rubbed them onto his forearm and elbow and kept smearing all the way up to the bare shoulder. He could feel the gentle mastications now making claim to his fingers but somehow this gave him a sense that he was making the right decision, that the fate he had chosen was the only one for him and that he would enjoy it, right up until the very end. He steadied his gait, rose up as a gurgle of delight came out from the occluded throat beneath him. Then he made his thrust, and a warm puddle of pleasure washed over him.