He rinsed our first link of sausage in the kitchen sink, but the cold water did it no good. Like cold air can make dough fall, so cold water made his minced meat droop. He presented a cold, sad, limp earthworm in my face. Not even a catfish would bite. This would not do. Offended, I pushed it out of my face like one pushes a wedge of pork fat to the side of the plate.

“Dessert?” I offered.

I removed all of my clothes until I was standing in a pair of red pumps. A meringue floated from me, as light as a feather and angelically white. Professor Ranji pawed at it madly, but each current of air caused by his gesticulation only lifted it higher. He sprang onto the kitchen counter and chased after it. He chased it from one room to the next room, leaping, pouncing, pounding, swearing over cardboard boxes and banana cases. At last, he chased it into the bathroom and closed the door. Standing on the toilet bowl, he switched on the light. The ventilator breathed artificially. The meringue found itself stuck against a noisy plastic disk.

Greedily, Professor Ranji snatched the meringue. Spun by fairies from the finest threads of clouds, it shrank at the dampness of his tongue. It disappeared more mysteriously than cotton candy, leaving no sugary trace or tangible memory of an aftertaste, but gave one the sensation of having seen the world from afar, so afar that subjectivity was freed from the tug of gravity and saturated by the eternity of space. The peace and absolute existence as an inedible was sensed for the duration of one second. In the language of edibles, it is called death.

He returned to me dragging his knuckles on the floor, a primitive man without clothing. Invitingly, I danced for him. I rolled apples and oranges down the lengths of my arms. I threw a banana in the air, and caught it in my backside slit, where it remained despite my erratic movements. I combed my coarse bushy hairs with a fork, but it became entangled in the growth, so I left it like a heathen ornament, and shifted, and twisted, and hopped and twirled. Professor Ranji had little appetite, I guessed by the sceptical look on his face. Perhaps I, too, was in need of seasoning.

Lost, I contemplated the refrigerator shelves. Should I aspire for sweetmeats, with orange marmalade, mint jelly or honey, or was that too nauseating a mélange? I opened a cupboard. Condiments could make him suspect severe limitations in my cuisine, never reaching beyond the hamburger and hot dog. Frustrated, I reopened the refrigerator. In a small Tupperware, there was leftover rice. The solution offered itself to me. I patted it and rolled it into my bottom lips like a cake, and then sprinkled it with soya sauce.

“Sushi?” I gleamed.

Professor Ranji preferred tuna sashimi for he sought my tongue. First he tasted it with his own, then he attempted to lure it into his mouth. It was a trap, I knew. Faced with the dire facts of life, I retreated cowardly, covered my mouth with my forearm, content my tongue was still there. It was clear I, the inexperienced one, must precede in the initial bite.