than I ever coveted.
Coveting again.
I may have coveted my neighbor’s goods, but I had certainly not broken into his
house and taken them. Oh, there had been the notepads and pens from the office,
a few forays into fiction on my tax returns, but no one fears eternal
condemnation for that. And there was the money from Consolidated Orbital to
alter the environmental survey, but that was a gift, not stolen, regardless of
what the environmentalists might have said. No, I could rest assured on the
issue of coveting my neighbor’s goods.
I adore quiche,
and for the last three years it has given me indigestion. But there is no need
for plop-plop fizz-fizz amongst the heavenly host. And the choice of quiche
here was outstanding. Nearest me was Italian Fontina with chanterelle mushrooms,
New Zealand spinach, and—ah!—Walla Walla onions that were in and out of season
so fast that a week’s negligence meant another year’s wait. Beside it, bacon.
Bacon throughout the quiche and crisp curls decorating the top! The smell made
me salivate. I could almost taste it. Bacon loaded with fat and sodium and
preservatives and red dyes of every number. I had forced myself to forgo it for
years. And crab quiche, and one with beluga caviar sprinkled—no, ladled—over
the top. I couldn’t decide. I didn’t have to. It was truly amazing how much fit
onto the platter. I was certainly glad I didn’t have to hold it up. Had I even
contemplated eating this much on earth, I would have gained five pounds. Ah,
heaven! On earth, I would have killed for this.
I smiled (subtly
speaking, for my spiritual face didn’t move but my essence shifted into the
outward show of happiness). Thou shalt not kill. Well, I wasn’t a murderer either. And that was a biggie. The
closest I had come to a dead body was my own. I moved on to the meats—rare
roast beef with the outside cuts ready for my taking, and crispy duck with no
grease at all. Admittedly, Milton Prendergast, my predecessor as district
manager, had killed himself, but that was hardly my fault. I didn’t murder him.
He was merely overly attached to his job. I added some spareribs to my platter.
I could sympathize with Prendergast’s attachment to the job. I had aimed for it
myself, and there was a lot of money to be had through it. But still, suicide
was hardly murder, even if he did tell me he would kill himself if I exposed
him. And I had to do that, or even with Amory’s help I couldn’t have gotten the
job. Well, knowing the shenanigans Prendergast had been involved in, at least I
knew I wouldn’t be running into him up here.
The roast turkey
smelled wonderful, a lifetime of Thanksgivings in one inhalation. With that
sausage stuffing my Mom used to make. And fresh cranberries. My whole body
quivered with hunger at the smell. I took a serving, then another.
There was still
room for the muffins and breads—steaming popovers, orange nut loaf, Mexican
corn bread with cheese and chiles—and for the grand assortment of desserts
beyond.
But I was too
hungry to wait. The juices in my empty stomach swirled; and I found myself
chomping on my tongue in juicy anticipation. I needed to eat now. And this was, after all, a buffet. I could
come back—eternally.
I reached for my
platter.
It slipped
beyond my grasp.
I grabbed.
Missed!
I heard
laughter. Those diners at the tables—they were laughing at me.
My stomach
whirled, now in fear. Surely this couldn’t mean that I was in . . . I lunged. But the
platter that had been right beside me was suddenly, inexplicably, three feet
away. Too far to reach, but near enough for the sweet smell of pineapple to reach
me. Despite my fear, my taste buds seemed to be jumping up and down at the back
of my tongue. The laughter from the tables was louder.
I didn’t dare
turn toward the diners. Judgment Day separated the sheep from the goats. And
even I, a city person, knew that sheep don’t laugh. And there was a definite
billy-goat quality to that
Coveting again.
I may have coveted my neighbor’s goods, but I had certainly not broken into his
house and taken them. Oh, there had been the notepads and pens from the office,
a few forays into fiction on my tax returns, but no one fears eternal
condemnation for that. And there was the money from Consolidated Orbital to
alter the environmental survey, but that was a gift, not stolen, regardless of
what the environmentalists might have said. No, I could rest assured on the
issue of coveting my neighbor’s goods.
I adore quiche,
and for the last three years it has given me indigestion. But there is no need
for plop-plop fizz-fizz amongst the heavenly host. And the choice of quiche
here was outstanding. Nearest me was Italian Fontina with chanterelle mushrooms,
New Zealand spinach, and—ah!—Walla Walla onions that were in and out of season
so fast that a week’s negligence meant another year’s wait. Beside it, bacon.
Bacon throughout the quiche and crisp curls decorating the top! The smell made
me salivate. I could almost taste it. Bacon loaded with fat and sodium and
preservatives and red dyes of every number. I had forced myself to forgo it for
years. And crab quiche, and one with beluga caviar sprinkled—no, ladled—over
the top. I couldn’t decide. I didn’t have to. It was truly amazing how much fit
onto the platter. I was certainly glad I didn’t have to hold it up. Had I even
contemplated eating this much on earth, I would have gained five pounds. Ah,
heaven! On earth, I would have killed for this.
I smiled (subtly
speaking, for my spiritual face didn’t move but my essence shifted into the
outward show of happiness). Thou shalt not kill. Well, I wasn’t a murderer either. And that was a biggie. The
closest I had come to a dead body was my own. I moved on to the meats—rare
roast beef with the outside cuts ready for my taking, and crispy duck with no
grease at all. Admittedly, Milton Prendergast, my predecessor as district
manager, had killed himself, but that was hardly my fault. I didn’t murder him.
He was merely overly attached to his job. I added some spareribs to my platter.
I could sympathize with Prendergast’s attachment to the job. I had aimed for it
myself, and there was a lot of money to be had through it. But still, suicide
was hardly murder, even if he did tell me he would kill himself if I exposed
him. And I had to do that, or even with Amory’s help I couldn’t have gotten the
job. Well, knowing the shenanigans Prendergast had been involved in, at least I
knew I wouldn’t be running into him up here.
The roast turkey
smelled wonderful, a lifetime of Thanksgivings in one inhalation. With that
sausage stuffing my Mom used to make. And fresh cranberries. My whole body
quivered with hunger at the smell. I took a serving, then another.
There was still
room for the muffins and breads—steaming popovers, orange nut loaf, Mexican
corn bread with cheese and chiles—and for the grand assortment of desserts
beyond.
But I was too
hungry to wait. The juices in my empty stomach swirled; and I found myself
chomping on my tongue in juicy anticipation. I needed to eat now. And this was, after all, a buffet. I could
come back—eternally.
I reached for my
platter.
It slipped
beyond my grasp.
I grabbed.
Missed!
I heard
laughter. Those diners at the tables—they were laughing at me.
My stomach
whirled, now in fear. Surely this couldn’t mean that I was in . . . I lunged. But the
platter that had been right beside me was suddenly, inexplicably, three feet
away. Too far to reach, but near enough for the sweet smell of pineapple to reach
me. Despite my fear, my taste buds seemed to be jumping up and down at the back
of my tongue. The laughter from the tables was louder.
I didn’t dare
turn toward the diners. Judgment Day separated the sheep from the goats. And
even I, a city person, knew that sheep don’t laugh. And there was a definite
billy-goat quality to that
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