tarachand

I once fell for a fancy man; a man so pale and d e l i c a t e l y boned that the first time I saw him s t r [e t c h e d] out in my bathtub he looked like something that had been filleted. Fancy Man was a salesman, and we spent most of our nights in expensive restaurants where one glance would have told anyone that we were poorly matched. His plates were always an artful tableaux. Crispy little birds -- hovering on pools of brightly colored purees and cunningly arranged fruit desserts encased in spun sugar cages while mine had a childish paint-by-number quality: red meat and green vegetables followed by a little someth