"Christ, where is my honey, I mean, not my 'money,' what's wrong with me, talking so silly!" Muffy asked herself vexedly. "There must be some Freudian reason that in referring to Mex, I uttered as his name the word 'money' when of course I meant to call him the love-name that no woman can resist calling him the minute she is so fortunate as to lay eyes on his adorable person, 'HONEY', or, more commonly, 'HONEY BUNNY', or most commonly of all, 'MY FUNNY HONEY BUNNY'!"
The haggish proprietor of the stall now noticed that the masses of flies that accompanied the sweet young lady, having consumed their fill of butter, were drifting in tendrils, like wisps of black smoke, from Muffy's person and over to the sweet and savory edibles arrayed so temptingly about the stall, and noticed also that Muffy's nakedness included the absence of any purse at all! She hastily dropped the stylish scimitar which she had been brandishing [oddly] as a sales ploy, and placing the heels of her hands firmly in the center of Muffy's back, (taking care first to wrap her old hands fastidiously in Saran Wrap so as to maintain in this unusual episode in her food services career her usual high standards of professional hygiene), the hag gave Muffy a sharp, hard push, propelling the poor girl out like a giant tossed bologna, into the milling crowd.
"MEX, HONEY!," Muffy cried out, as she landed, as luck would have it, flat on her back, and free of the unattractive flies which were now clustered on stacks of goat cheese and brie and open vats of sun dried tomatoes and pesto and bowls of gazpacho and borscht and vichysoisse and trays of tiramisu and baklava and those individual custard tarts with glazed fruit decorating the tops and other trendy comestibles in the hag's stall, which was a branch of Zabar's, yes, flat on her back, and clean, relatively speaking, and fetchingly naked, and so very vulnerable, at the feet of the adorable one, Mex. |
