Amuse Bouche

Amuse Bouche*

*An appetizer. Often a bite-sized hors d'oeuvre but sometimes a shot glass filled with cold soup. Literally the term means ‘A mouth amuser’.


‘Not too much,’ I chide him gently. ‘Just enough.’

‘For what?’ He’s smiling now.

‘To cleanse the palate. To tease the taste buds.’
And I find that I’m smiling too.

‘To tempt the tongue?’ he asks with alliterative obedience.

‘Exactly.’

He dips his head.
His tongue probes
inquisitively
desiringly.

‘Good?’ The word catches in my throat.
I’m struck with a halting breathlessness.

He looks up at me.
‘Good. Like nothing I’ve tasted.’
His lips are damp.
I want to wipe my forearm across his mouth.

His gaze stikes me a glancing blow.
Head dips again.
Tongue ventures,
Slip-sliding in.

‘Not too .... tart?’ I want to giggle.

‘Just as I like it,’ he answers, all mock-seriousness.
At least, that’s what I think he says
but the words are muffled.
He’s still drinking.

‘Is there more?’ he says at last.
His tongue is delving deep, wanting the last drop.
Now he's using his finger,
scooping the juice to his mouth.
His lips are smeared.

‘Your eyes are bigger than your mouth.’
And they are. His eyes are like
white shiny bulbs,
illuminating the small
blue irises. His tongue
is thick and furry –
too broad for his lips.

‘I want more,’ he insists like a child.

‘Of course, there’s more.
Just eat it slowly. Don't gobble.’

Later, when his hunger
has taken him far beyond appetizers, he rises to thank me,
but I say:
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’