After weeks of a healthy diet, exercise, abstinence
from all forms of sexual activity, he had had more
than enough of his own piety. The rare hamburger
and onion rings tasted so good, as did the chocolate
cheesecake (in the interests of not overdoing it, he’d said
"no" to the vanilla ice cream). Why, even the waitress,
not his type in any meaningful sense of the word,
seemed rather tasty now, a morsel worth contemplating.
After all, a person could stand only so much of self-
improvement, he thought to himself, it was spring,
the dogwoods were blooming, the Eastern redbuds
thrusting a haze of purple into the air, every once-
darkened corner crying out its possibilities, and what
harm could a little indulgence do on a night like this,
after watching King Lear at the local theatre, when
madness, senility, senescence might be only hours away,
when betrayal, even, by one’s own body was a likely
outcome of it all, so, yes, next time he would have
that scoop of vanilla ice cream, he would have another
Grand Marnier, virtue could wait until morning
to resurrect itself, Gloucester was going to die one way
or another in the end and honor, though speechless,
needn’t be so sanctimonious about itself, tomorrow
was a new tomorrow, he thought, lifting his fork
once more towards his mouth: his hungry mouth, his
ravenous mouth, that God-given mouth made for
eating and swallowing and taking it all bloody in.
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