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my life are rapidly waning.
    “Oh, no, no. Not a chef. I own Joe’s Diner in Gideon’s Cove. I cook, but I’m not a chef. Big difference.” I can’t take my eyes off his greasy, glistening mouth.
    “What’s the difference?” he asks. Crack. Peel. Another crack. It’s like watching Vlad the Impaler conduct an autopsy.
    “Um…well, a chef is…has more…uh, training, I guess…” Rip. Dunk. Chew. Slobber. “Um, here, you have some butter on your chin.” I smile weakly and gesture with my own napkin.
    “There’ll be more before dinner is through.” He smiles, and I can see the creamy pink lobster meat bulging in his cheek. My own baked scrod sits cooling before me. Unable to look away from my dinner companion, I watch as he rips off a smaller leg and chews it in horrifyingly delicate nibbles, working the lobster meat up with his teeth, sucking, slurping. A sudden vision of sex with Roger deals my appetite the death blow.
    “Don’t you like your dinner?” he asks, drowning another lobster chunk. “Hey, can I have some more butter, please?” he asks a passing busboy.
    “Oh, it’s good. No, no. Good. Yummy. I like it.” I take a forkful and chew listlessly. Perhaps I’ll become a vegetarian.
    I am at a loss for words—a rarity, I assure you—but Roger, drunk with the hedonistic devouring of the poor crustacean, doesn’t notice. And it’s not just the lobster that is laid waste by this locust horde of a man. He smacks and groans his way through mashed potatoes, stuffing overly long green beans into his mouth, then turns his attention to my plate. “You gonna eat that?” he asks, and I shake my head, fascinated and horrified, as he devours my rice pilaf and vegetable medley. Finally, he spears up my barely touched fish, which he dips in the last of his drawn butter, and swallows it joyfully, an orca whale finishing off the hapless seal pup.
    Finally, he pushes away the pillaged lobster shell and wipes his mouth, then takes the little wet nap and cleans his hands. “Well, that was fantastic,” he pronounces, leaning back. His girth is noticeably bigger. “Do you want dessert? I could go for some cheesecake.”
    “Wow! Are you kidding?” I ask. He frowns. “Oh, I’m…I’m sorry. It’s just…wow! That was a big lobster! Boy! You can eat!” Okay, enough, Maggie. “So, Roger, do you have any interesting hobbies?” I ask. It would be really nice to think of something other than food at this point, and it’s a good date question. Not that there’s any chance of us getting together. The thought of kissing that rampaging mouth… I shudder visibly.
    “You cold?” he asks.
    “No, no. Tell me about your hobbies,” I order.
    “Well,” he says, “actually, I’m glad you asked. I love being a nurse, of course, but what I find really fascinating, what I think might be my true calling, is animal communication.” He looks at me expectantly.
    “Oh! That sounds neat,” I say. I’m not really sure what it is, but anything is better than watching him eat. “So is that like, um, animal training?” Our waiter is glancing our way, and I try to wave him off discreetly. Any more food, and Roger’s belt will slice him in half.
    “No. It’s not training at all, Maggie. I’d think a smart girl like yourself would know that.”
    I yearn for Colonel. Was I complaining about being single? Foolish me.
    “An animal communicator reads the thoughts of animals,” he lectures.
    “Oh.” I pause. “Do they speak English?”
    “Who?”
    “The animals. I mean, if you can read their thoughts, wouldn’t it be in cat language or dog or goat or whatever?”
    Roger frowns, clearly displeased. “No, Maggie. It’s no joke, either. Don’t you watch Pet Psychic on Animal Planet?”
    “You know, I’ve missed that one. But, hmm. Well. Interesting. So you, what, try to read their thoughts and, I don’t know, tell if they’re hurt or if they’ve been abused or something?”
    He smiles condescendingly, and