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19 June 2000 AD
One of the best parts of travelling to different worlds is the food. You wouldn't believe the things people eat! Calcium Soup? Sure. Blood Ice Sorbet? You bet. But as weird as the culinary preferences are on some worlds, you just can't beat some of the food in some places. In fact, many worlds improve the taste of things you swear you wouldn't touch. Take Astral's world for example. The best Brussel sprouts you could ever imagine. In fact, she sends me some for my kitchen every now and then. Of course, it's always great to go to a completely fantastic world and find simple, good food which you're used to. Ha, I remember this one time in particular, and not only because of the food.
It was a great world to go to. Three inhabited moons, magic, computers, the works. I spent a few weeks hopping around the satellite resorts, taking in the sights and culture. It wasn't just humans, though. There was this alien race from the neighboring planet, Rumen, about where our Jupiter is, I think. Earth sized and peaceful. I found out that we had been in contact for centuries. They too were humanoid physically, but they had a few extra bells and whistles.
I was on the biggest moon, Christo, if I recall correctly. The waters were navy blue and the sky was a nice light yellow. I stepped into this diner, made out in the 1950s style. Apparently it was the latest stuff there, not retro at all. Quaint little thing by the seaside. I sat down at the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. I had grown quite fond of the local brew. It was laced with a berry like tart taste accompanied by an alcoholic fire. No hangovers included, thankfully. I sat there, slowly sipping it, the waitress cleaning the counters and attending to the few other customers. The bell above the front door chimed cheerfully, signalling the arrival of another patron. Usually I wouldn't look up, but the unmistakable sound of high heels begged me to. I was glad I did.
She was tall, six feet at least. Alien, young and in very good shape, wearing a short one piece yellow dress. She had four arms, as did all the Rumenites. The lower pair were on her gorgeously tapering hips, the top left removing her sunglasses. Her top right hand brushed through her long hair, black with an enchanting blue sparkle. Her eyes were the same color as her hair. As she surveyed the diner for a comfortable spot, her dazzling eyes fell on me. My face was presently buried in the long coffee cup, but I managed to smile through my eyes, and she acknowledged them with one from her own pools of enchantment. She walked by me, her perfume, crisp and lemony overwhelming me as she passed. Sitting down on the other arm of the 'L' shaped bar, she called the waitress. Her order taken, she set the sunglasses down on the counter, then rested her angelic face on her slim, strong hands. She looked at me again, then lit her face up with a delicious smile. My countenance, now unmasked by the coffee cup, smiled back. We stared intently at one another, directly, each as openly as the other. I continued to sip my coffee, never taking my eyes off hers. Perhaps she was just looking at my coat, my Sherwani, I considered. No, people don't look you in the eyes if they're interested in your coat. She was interrupted by clink of cutlery on glass as the waitress had arrived with her order.
Her attention turned from me to the plate before her, as did my gaze. On a simple white plate lay a large wedge of a pie, its crust deep golden, filled with a light yellow colored substance. A blood red liquid was poured over it, dripping over the side. It was topped with a large swirling cloud of whipped cream, within which was nestled a walnut sized cherry. Ah, the cherries. The best I have ever tasted. On this world, the larger ones are as big as melons, and seedless to boot. All are a deep burgundy red, filled with the rich sweetness that only cherries possess. Just biting into one sends shivers down your spine, as the tangy red juices gush onto your tongue, your teeth cleaving through the flesh, meeting the perfect amount of resistance to make it enjoyable. What follows as your molars rape it is an orgasmic, liberating feeling pulsating through your sinews. And the best part is, you can do it again, and again, and again.
She regarded the seductive curves of the cherry, no doubt remembering many previous encounters with such fruit, as I just had. She then looked at me again, and I at her, both knowing that we were thinking of the same thing. She plucked the cherry from its white nest with her long fingers, studying it, planning her assault on its flesh. She gently slid it into her mouth, tucking it in between her full lips with her index finger. Looking at me for a brief moment, she closed her eyes and began the slow process of devouring it. Her jaw gracefully rocked in a circular motion, and I imagined the sound of cherry flesh against her white teeth. It took her a few minutes, and I sat through it only watching her and the hypnotic motions of her jaw. When she had finished, she took a deep breath, straightened herself in her stool and opened her eyes, smiling, once more at me. I returned her smile.
One of her free hands picked up the little desert fork, then spread the cream around until it was evenly distributed over the triangular slice of pie. Twisting it masterfully in her fingers, she brought the fork down into the cream. It slid through like my ether blade through butter. As it made contact with the top of the pie itself, a few drops of the red liquid spilled over the side, the surface caving slightly from the pressure of the fork. A moment later it burst through the dense yellow custard, stopping only at the end when it almost silently cracked the crust at the bottom. She struck the fork into the little layered morsel, and with the same grace, deposited it on her tongue. Withdrawing into the depths of her mouth, the bite bade farewell to the evening air, and she once again began the jaw rocking motion.
All this time we had been watching each other, perhaps with a carnal lust to both each other and the food. My coffee cup lay empty on the counter, and the waitress came around to collect it. Her melodic Irish accented voice permeated my senses.
"Can I get you anything else, Sir?"
I looked up at her. I don't remember her much, probably because I was busy with other things, but she was pleasant looking. I took another look at my friend across the bar.
"What is she having?"
"Her? Oh, that's our special. Vanilla Cream Pie with the works."
I smiled. So did my friend.
"I'll have one of those."
The End
© Vishal Bharadwaj, 2000 AD
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