What Flavor Is Your Mood Disorder?


“What’re you having?” the rakish twenty-something asks.  Still staring into the fluted dish before me, spoon in hand yet inactive, I respond, “I’m not sure exactly.  I asked for a double-scoop of Desire and was handed this.”

The twenty-something turns so his torso, while dissected by the cafe table, is visible to me, “What’s it taste like?”  Turning my head in his direction I realize he’s: 1) That “guy-in-the-tuxedo” from my cousin’s Mystery Date game; and 2) Sans the tux!  I asked myself, why would “Mr.-Mystery-Date-Man” be sitting in a soda fountain, at a table next to mine, wearing only a smile?  My chagrin whips my gaze back to the disappointing confection now taking the shape of a poached egg.  “Well,” I stammer, still shaken by his cheeky immodesty and dismayed by my immediate craving for carnality, carousal, and covetousness, “It hints at Desire, but clearly an inferior attempt; the delicacy of Desire is overwhelmed by the coarse texture and indulgence.”  I decided to shift my chair and face the tempest of his proximity head-on, “What’s that you seem to be enjoying?” I ask, sounding foolish.

“A Raspberry Restraint,” he said as the spoon scraped and clanked against the spotless bowl.  “I have at least one every day.  I could probably eat fifty.  Moderation, that’s what I hear, everything in moderation.  Who’re they trying to kid?  I can spell; and I assure you that there’s no Mania in moderation,” he said as he slid slowly forward in his seat, the heat of his knees gently toasting my flank; “Sounds like they did the switcheroo. . .gave you a two-scooper of Licentious Lingonberry; they do that when they’re out of Desire.”

Flabbergasted, I now understood why I was staring at the freshly filleted fellow, splayed before me like an all-you-can-eat-buffet stocked with preprocessed food.  “But I wanted Desire. . .gentle, demur Desire. . .subtly prurient, hopeful and hungry. . .Desire. . .in general terms!”  Sounding exasperated, I wave my hand indicating his wanton availability, “Licentious Lingonberry?  No wonder it tasted so obviously. . .bitter. . .each spoonful made me thirstier. . .and there you were, the perfect glass of ice-water.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up trying in vain to disguise my arousal, “Sure, you’re lust personified; carnal; and after, I’m right back here; the one place where we can savor those flavors of humanity lost to us; before we go back to our senseless mockery of life,” I said as I began to leave.

“Sounds to me,” Mr.-Mystery-Date-Sans-Tux shouted, “like you ought to have ordered the Passion Fruit!”

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