Appetite for Love

Dan prepares perfect morsels of food for Deirdre. On Tuesday, he serves her two delicate madeleines that look like the shells a diminutive mermaid might string across her breasts. On Wednesday, he proffers a miniscule pomegranate. He carves out the glistening seeds, making her savor them one by one—spoon-feeding her as if she were a toddler in a highchair. Friday’s treat is a ladyfinger banana, so cocky and plump it threatens to burst from its brazen yellow skin. He slices coin-slender portions and slides them into her mouth. Her tongue aches from their honeyed flavor.

Deirdre and Dan don’t live together, although he comes by often and has his own key. As boyfriends go, he borders on satisfactory. His hygiene is impeccable—he scrubs each piece of fruit with a brush of his own design, using an edible solution he concocts in deepest secrecy. His fashion sense is Pinterest trendy in an antiseptic-hipster way, a look that never fails to turn her on. Plus, Dan has a steady job and parents who live at a distance—essential assets of any decent boyfriend. If only he didn’t starve her, he’d be a keeper.

On each visit, Dan pays homage to Deirdre’s body. He salutes her navel, placing a chocolate truffle there and meditating a moment before lipping it in, allowing it to melt in his mouth. Only when it has disintegrated fully does he kiss her, dispensing lingering sweetness. Between each of her toes he places succulent figs and dates, then nibbles and licks away until no stickiness remains.

“Darling,” Dan says, after an epic evening of lovemaking. “Was that as fantastic for you as it was for me?” In the semi-darkness, his chocolate eyes stare into hers. He traces her ear with a gentle finger.

“Indescribable.”

Her skin is beaded with sweat and her back aches from overarching. Dan has cherished every accessible inch of her, from toes to crown. Her stomach rumbles nonstop, though. How can he not be aware of this?

“Tomorrow I shall feed you a pea pod shaped like your gorgeous pinky toe.” He appears to reflect, eventually adding, “And perhaps a mini Brussel sprout, as a tribute to your delicate bud of womanhood.”

“With butter?” Deirdre craves fats and calories.

“Sorry, darling. They, and you, must remain pure.”

Deirdre cuddles up closer to Dan. He’s warm and smells like nutmeg, and he teases her nerve endings into a cyclonic climax every time they make love. She can stoke up with calories tomorrow morning, when he’s not around. Entwined, they fall asleep.

In the morning, Dan prepares a breakfast for her, consisting of a single quail egg on a toast soldier and an espresso, rich and black and bitter. They take separate trains to work, parting only after Dan kisses each of Deirdre’s fingers. As soon as he’s out of sight, she backtracks to the food court in the mall above the station. The aroma of salty, fat-laden breakfast foods being fried is almost hallucinogenic. She selects plump sausages—sizzling and snapping, hot from the pan—and eats a toasted English muffin, saturated with butter. It drips down her chin as she stuffs the bread and meat into her mouth, and she sops it up with a cheap paper serviette. Afterward, she sits back and hugs herself, before checking her watch and bolting for the train.

Lunchtime can’t come quickly enough. A few weeks ago, Deirdre discovered a wonderful spot, near the office, that specializes in blintzes of all kinds. There are ones with quark and farmer’s cheese and ricotta. Fruit blintzes that spill over with blueberries and raspberries. And exotic varieties with caviar and spiced meat. She loves them all.

“I’ll have a blueberry blintz, please.” She pays no attention to the proprietor. She only has eyes for the food.

“You’re in luck. Shipment of Cape Breton blueberries arrived today.” The man’s musical baritone is infused with enthusiasm. He sounds like a proud parent bragging about his talented kid, not a blintz guy about to cook up an inexpensive takeaway meal.

Deirdre drags her eyes away from the food and looks across the counter. Standing there is a young man, with a head of curls that look like little donuts vying for space. He’s a trifle plump and has symmetrical cheek dimples that flash as he smiles at her.

“Your blintzes are to die for.” Hurry, hurry, hurry, she’s thinking.

“Thanks. You’re a loyal customer. Today’s order is on the house.”

When the food is ready, Deirdre takes it back to the office. She closes her door and mutes her phone. The smell of the sugary pancake and ripe berries is intoxicating, and each forkful makes her taste buds sing and her stomach celebrate. It is heaven in a cardboard takeout box.

That night, after Dan blanches himself a heaping helping of veggies and bastes a ribeye to perfection, he allows her the promised pea pod and one immaculate sprout. As he eats his own hefty meal, lying beside her in bed, he sips Veuve from her navel, pouring in a bit at a time and lapping it up like a cat whisker-deep in cream. The bubbles snap and titillate Deirdre’s skin and for a while all she can think of is his body on hers. But, as they twine together afterward, Deirdre wonders, is great sex good enough? Shouldn’t I get to fulfill all my cravings?

She dreams of blintzes. Savoury ones, sweet ones—all of them fattening. The blintz man is in her visions, too. He’s beaming and holding out huge platters of food.

At lunch the next day, Deirdre is first in line.

“I’m sorry I don’t know your name. Mine’s Deirdre.” She holds her hand out for the box of peach blintzes and tries not to drool on it.

“Frederick.” He bobs his head at her. His dimpled cheeks are so rosy; they beg to be pinched. Or maybe bitten. She wonders what he’d look like, away from his ovens and out of his apron.

The next day, he reveals that he uses his grandmother’s treasure trove of recipes to produce his delicious food. He tells Deirdre he saves his best produce for her. He stuffs her blintzes past the bursting point, although he doesn’t do this for other customers.

She still spends her evenings with Dan, who feeds her less and less. Tonight he has brought a microscope.

“Come here,” He pulls her over to the table and gestures at his new gadget.

“What is it?” She squints through the lens at the glass slide. Nothing.

He checks it for himself and makes an adjustment to the focus. Standing back, he waits for her to take another look.

“Hint: it’s tasty.”

“Well, I can see it’s green. Looks swampy. Maybe it’s a squashed pea?”

“No. But you’re close. Guess again.”

“Is it part of a green bean?” Who cares what it is? All Deirdre can think about is how hungry she is for real food.

“It’s puree of celery. And you get to lick the slide!” Dan grins broadly, his mouth resembling that of a chattering wind-up toy.

“Uh…” Deirdre has no words.

But it doesn’t matter. Dan does.

“It’s organic! I made it myself and had some tonight with my sous vide chicken before I came over. Divine!”

Deirdre rolls her eyes. “And I get to have a whole lick of it myself?”

“Yes, but only after I worship your goddess body. I promise I shall make it a very special night for you, darling.”

Deirdre gives this proposal two seconds of thought. Yes, she does so like sleeping with Dan, in spite of the hipbone bruises they inevitably inflict on each other. But she needs to face facts. He’s bat shit cuckoo. And enough’s enough.

“Danny.” She says his name slowly, her tone as golden as caramel. She removes the slide from the microscope and hands it to him, ignoring his look of astonishment.

“What is it? Aren’t you dying to try it?” Dan looks like a chastised puppy, his brown eyes all droopy at the corners.

Her hand trembles but she stiffens her spine and thrusts the slide toward him again. “No, Dan. This is crazy. You’ve gone too far.”

“Is loving you crazy? Is giving you the best of the best insane?”

“Feeding me food that wouldn’t fill an ant’s stomach is totally nuts. I can’t continue to do this.”

“How can you even say that? Listen to yourself!” Dan’s voice rises to an unattractive falsetto.

Narrowing his eyes at her, he licks the puree and makes a show of stroking his stomach as if it’s the most satisfying taste experience he’s ever had. Then he tosses the slide away. It hits the wall and shatters.

Without saying a word, Deirdre fetches a whisk broom and dust pan, and sweeps up the shards. She walks to the kitchen cabinet and collects Dan’s special fruit brush and cleaning solution, and puts them in a plastic Walmart bag. He winces.

“I think this is all you have stored here. Oh, except for your toothbrush. Why don’t you go get it?” She holds out the bag.

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yes.” She keeps her gaze steady and her back straight.

“Okay, maybe I pushed you too far. I could give you a whole spoonful of the puree. Would that do?”

“No, Danny. Really. It’s over.” Now that the words are out of her mouth, she feels happiness begin to burble in her veins. She should have broken up with him weeks ago, at about the time he started limiting her food intake to under a hundred calories. But doing it now is much, much better than never doing it at all.

Dan dirge-drags himself around the apartment, carrying the partially filled plastic bag. He adds his toothbrush and a couple pairs of boxers and a single maraschino cherry in a small vial that he unearths from under the mattress.

“I was saving this for a special occasion.” He sounds like someone delivering a eulogy. “Now you’ll never find out how great it was going to be.”

“That’s a shame. But do take it with you, along with this.” She hands him his microscope. He tucks it under an arm, and she guides him toward the door. She holds out her hand for the key. There’s an awkward silence after he gives it to her. Finally, he slinks out of the apartment.

Deirdre waits ten minutes before opening the door and glancing both ways along the hallway. Then, she throws on a jacket and runs to the station. It’s not too late, she hopes. She catches a train and heads downtown.

Near her office, streetlights are switched on and neon signs are glowing. There’s energy in the air, crackling against her skin, quite unlike the congealed stillness of daytime that she’s used to. Couples sway down the boulevard, stopping in at cafes and bars, kissing in dim corners, and laughing at shared jokes. Deirdre smiles and picks up her pace.

She prays the blintz restaurant will still be open. She runs, her jacket flying open in the wind, her breathing rapid. But the lights are off, the door is locked. Her shoulders slump. After a moment, a tear sluices its way down her cheek.

There’s a sudden click, and the door opens. A man exits and turns to lock up. It’s dark, but just maybe…

She steps forward. “Frederick?” Her voice, choked with tears, is hoarse.

The man looks sideways at her. His silhouette is rounded and short, and the outline of his head shows curlicues of hair. Deirdre’s heart feels like an exuberant soufflé, rising.

“Who’s there?” He brandishes his key ring at her.

Deirdre takes another step, so that she is under the streetlight, fully illuminated. “It’s me, Deirdre.”

 “Thank God. You scared me!” He remains by the door and puts his keys in his pocket. His face begins to transform, eye crinkles emerging and mouth curving upward.

She walks closer. “I’m sorry to come here so late. But, somehow, I was craving a blintz. Maybe a few of them, actually.”

Frederick takes her hand. “It’s never too late for a good blintz. And for you, I’ll prepare Grandma’s most secret recipe.” He opens the door and they enter.

Inside, after the lights are turned on, the griddle heated up, and the aprons put on, everything becomes cinnamon-scented and buttery delectable. Deirdre has never felt this satiated, at least when it comes to food. The blintzes, with their uncanny combination of cream cheese and fruit, are beyond scrumptious. They’re sticky and dense and coat her tongue with sweet goodness. And, to top everything off, the brandy bottle he dusts off holds tawny ambrosia, fit for the gods and perfect for two appreciative humans.

“Thank you, Frederick. I’ve never enjoyed a meal more.” At the café table Deirdre places a hand on his.

“Are you …?” He pauses, looking both excited and unsure.

“Yes. I am.” Deirdre stands up and pulls him to her for their first embrace. It’s one hundred percent fresh baked, nutrient-packed, and inevitable.

They turn off the oven, take off their aprons, and try to get athletic. Their gyrations lack finesse. They bump noses when they try to kiss and fumble with each other’s buttons. The conditions aren’t ideal, either. They only have a hard countertop to work with, not a duvet-covered bed.

None of that matters. There’s no rush. Things will get better.

At long last, Deirdre feels full.