Mr. and Mrs. Richmond loved each other without really being in love, because they had gone past the point where love was all that mattered. Between them, they had produced only one child and that child had died in its eighth month of life from complications due to premature birth.

The loss of their child -- a girl destined, they believed, to surpass her mother's beauty -- created a rift that was irreconcilable, yet unspoken. Not that they fell out of love, instead they fell into separate lives that intersected at certain points, mostly falling into the category of the evening meal.

They always ate together because human beings needed food and water in order to survive. They traveled together because they had no friends but each other. They slept together because human beings required sex as well, and had come to the conclusion that life was good, but repetitious at best.

Tonight, Gertrude handed him a newspaper. "What's this?" he said.

"Remember a few months back when they had the construction on Outer Drive, and I thought they were going to build another gas station, and you were like, 'No, it'll probably be another dreadful restaurant'? You were only partially right. See? Four stars out of five."

"Dear, I have work to do," said Steven. "I thought we were ordering in?" He passed the paper back to Gertrude.

"It'll be fun, and we'll go early so you can get back to whatever you were doing before I interrupted you. Promise."

"Do we need to make reservations?"

"I've already called."

He looked at her for the first time that evening.

Gertrude, blond ringlets falling past her shoulders (they, naked and smooth), stood over him, wide hazel eyes glowing, poised in a red dress that announced every curve, every nuance of her movement.

He smiled.

She was beautiful -- very beautiful. If it were not for her beauty he may have left her long ago. At thirty-eight she seemed incapable of aging, while he himself had already started to get a little heavy in the waist; thin on top. "And if I had said no?"

"I would have gone without you."

Bobbit's Dream Cuisine wasn't at all what Steven had expected, not that he expected much to begin with, but he was willing to try it for Gertrude's amusement. He failed to see the "dreaminess" of Bobbit's Dream Cuisine, which was to Steven's eyes a bit run-down, hunkered between a Laundromat and a jewelry store. Thankfully, the interior was more inviting.

They were led to a private booth. The table was fitted with a white tablecloth and a glass jar filled with melted wax; two candles long burnt out, the third, burned low, flickering in the center of the table. It was mildly romantic, as such things went -- a metaphor of their love.

The waiter came over and served them water and breadsticks.

They couldn't decide on an entree, so they ordered appetizers and wine.

"Soup, salad, or coleslaw?" said the waiter, scribbling on his pad.

"Soup," said Steven. The waiter didn't look at him.

"And for the lovely lady?" flashing perfect little teeth, pretty gray eyes

"Salad. Garden please, no croutons," said Gertrude, tearing a breadstick into five little pieces and arranging it on her plate.

"Type of dressing?" still scribbling still eyeing

"Suggestion?" She leveled her gaze at him; he looked away, sweat dotting his brow.

"The house vinaigrette. If you like Italian, you'll like our house vinaigrette."

She crossed her legs, smiled at him and leaned against the table so that her breasts were resting there, the light of the jar throwing a weak spotlight on them.

She's playing the game with him, thought Steven. This stupid game I'm always supposed to go along with, and I do it because it makes her happy. "The house dressing sounds perfect, thank you," she said.

Steven cleared his throat. "The way you look at my wife, I see it, you know." The waiter swallowed, hard. "You want to fuck her, don't you? Come on now, don't be shy, I won't be mad at you... be a man about it."

"Sir, I really don't think--"

"But sex doesn't require thought, just impulse and opportunity: the proper weather conditions, if you understand my meaning -- of course you do." Steven took a breadstick from the basket and waved it at him, as if casting a spell that would turn him into a frog. "Your parents should have taught you better manners. What's your name, son?"

"Roger," said the waiter.

"Well Roger, if you want to fuck her, why don't you ask her instead of being a pussy about it?"

"Sir, you misunderstand, if I've somehow offended you, I apologize."

"Yes, you have offended me, so why don't you pluck out your eyes?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What? They don't have Gideon Bibles at the university?"

"Steven!" Gertrude crossed her arms. "Let the boy alone. He can look if he wants to: this dress was made for looking."

"Wait a minute," said the waiter, holding up his hand in protest. "I think you've gotten the wrong idea about me." He laughed nervously, glancing across the room at a short mustachioed man who had made eye contact with him and was now motioning him over. "I'm sorry, the manager wants me. I'll be right back with your soup."

"And my salad," Steven's wife said.

"Yes, of course." The waiter excused himself and met with the manager. The manager seemed displeased, as if he were going to yell at him.

"I hope you didn't get that sweet boy in trouble with your foolery."

"My foolery?" Steven drained his glass and poured another. He offered some to Gertrude, but she declined. "You invented this game, remember? I was just having a little fun with him."

"I don't think his manager has much of a sense of humor."

The manager and the waiter dispersed into the small door leading into the kitchen. Several minutes later the manager emerged from the kitchen with a basket and a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Compliments of the house," he said. He placed the breadsticks on the table and poured the dark red wine. He left the bottle next to Gertrude.

"What happened to our waiter?" asked Steven.

"Oh, he'll be out momentarily," the manager said.

"He didn't get in any trouble, did he? We were just joking around with him. Poking a little fun. My wife here, is very beautiful, as you can plainly see..."

"Her beauty is radiant..." said the manager.

"Well, you see the point of the joke: every man ogles at her, and they do it right in front of me, like I'm not even here." The manager seemed distracted, his eyes focused on the kitchen door. "We were having fun with him, that's all, just a little ice breaker. Some people can't actually appreciate our sense of humor, but you see it, don't you?"

"Clearly and with both eyes."

"See?" Steven said to his wife. "This man has a sense of humor."

Gertrude nodded in agreement, stuffing two pieces of buttered breadstick pieces into her mouth.

"He offended you with his eyes nonetheless," said the manager. "You meant it as a joke, but I take the behavior of my staff very seriously."

"I think you're missing the point."

Another waiter, grotesquely tall, his arms long and flowing, walked up to the manager and whispered in his ear. "Do excuse me," said the manager. "Something has come up that needs my attention." The tall waiter moved off, collecting plates and taking them with him to the kitchen. "My apologies for the wait. Is there anything else I can assist you with?" said the manager.

Steven started to say something, but Gertrude broke in. "Our appetizers, please. We're starving."

"Roger will be right with you. If there's any other concerns don't hesitate calling me." The manager went to the cash register to ring up the departing diners.

"Nice guy," said Steven sarcastically.

The kitchen door swung open and Roger came out. Balanced in his hands were a plate and an oversized bowl. He walked slowly, so as not to spill anything. "Here you are, Sir and Madame: soup of the day, and a garden salad with house dressing, hold the croutons." Roger had sunglasses and little red streaks running down his cheeks.

"You didn't get in any trouble, did you?" said Gertrude.

It was apparent to both of them that something wasn't quite right: he'd mixed up their order. Steven gave the salad to his wife, and she, his bowl of soup. She raised her shoulders in an "I-don't-know-you-ask-him" type of gesture.

"Oh, I get it," said Steven chuckling. "This is a joke, a little payback for your manager bitching at you."

"Not at all sir," said Roger.

"Then what's the deal with the sunglasses?"

"What sunglasses?" the waiter said, smiling coyly.

"Now you're just being silly," Steven observed. "Take them off."

"I think it's hilarious, leave them on," said Gertrude, giggling from the wine.

"It's silly. It ceased being funny about five minutes ago," said Steven. "Take off the sunglasses. I don't like it when I can't see a man's eyes. Take them off, please."

Gertrude made a face at Steven.

"At your request," the waiter said.

He pulled off the glasses and put them in his pocket. Two empty sockets stared back at him, blood trickling down from the wounds like tears.

Steven glanced at his wife in amazement, then down at the soup.

Two gray eyes floated in the tomato and parsley-rich liquid.

Steven laughed. "Oh I get it. One joke against another. You've bested me."

"This is the soup of the day. No joke, no contest," said the waiter. "I take parting with my eyes very seriously. I offended you, so I plucked them out."

"Oh come on," said Steven, incredulous. "You expect me to believe that..." He looked into the soup again. "Wait a minute."

Steven looked around at the diners for the first time that evening.

There was no indication that anything weird was occurring, but on close examination, he noticed what the various diners were eating, and it wasn't all food.

A woman in the corner was eating a wedding dress, long and flowing, that led all the way out to the entrance. On other plates, stars and constellations danced; on others, holographic transmissions and data were scooped up and devoured, numbers and letters splitting from over-fed guts. Everyone had an appetite for something, and that appetite was met with precision.

The article in the paper spoke of "dreamy tarts" and "dream-like-combination plates." Was it a joke? Poetic license by the reviewer? There was however -- if he looked deeply enough -- a hatred of every man that had ever looked at his wife with lustful eyes, if he only dared admit it. How many of them had actually managed to bed her? She would have bedded the waiter if given the opportunity, wedding vows be damned; she was flirtatious, not adulterous, he reminded himself, but the waiter was the type she fantasized about: tall, curly dark hair, gray eyes. gray eyes. He wanted to pluck those eyes out. It was his desire.

"Try them sir," the waiter said. "They're very good eyes. The left one's stronger than the right, but they're a good pair together. Please. I'll be offended if you don't eat my eyes."

"Come on darling, it couldn't be any worse than bull scrotum, and you've had that. Remember? You said it tasted like liver. Those beautiful gray eyes... try them," said his wife. She was gazing into the high green leaves and trees that were her salad -- an enchanted forest on her plate. She stuck a fork into the bark of a tree and drew the sap out with a sucking sound. "Mmmmmmm," she said. "Go on, Steven."

Steven dipped his spoon in the soup, the dilated eye staring up at him.

He closed his eyes, put it in his mouth and chewed. It burst, and a dozen flavors danced upon his tongue, spicy and sweet, sour and salty.

He wanted more.

It was good.

Very.

Good.

"What else do you have? Could you spare a rib or something?"

His wife laughed, wiping away the juice that had squirted from the eye with a napkin.

Before the waiter could open his mouth, the manager handed Steven a knife and he began to slice...