Seated at the table next to us in this old-fashioned, charming steakhouse, a man and woman. Both early 40s, I’ll presume. Both were a little heavyset, the woman more so. She was short, with dirty blonde hair. They had both recently consumed the restaurant’s signature two-person Porterhouse and were now contemplating dessert. Their conversation revealed they were not on a date, but rather associates of some sort.
The gentleman excused himself to make a phone call. The woman waited until he was out of visible range, then proceeded to pick up the gargantuan Porterhouse bone and gnaw on it.
Now, there was little meat on this bone. They had both previously done a good job of removing it using the utensils the restaurant had thoughtfully provided. However, the woman gnawed on the bone with such violence in her quest for protein that one would be inclined to think she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.
The sucking noise was the perfect auditory accompaniment for the sight we were beholding. After gnashing the bone, she would suck loudly as to draw in any bits of meat loosened by her fore-teeth. She would then break free of the bone and suck again to clear out any spaces in her teeth occupied by any micron of beef. Vacu-flossing, if you will.
Her fingers and face glistened with oil.
After what seemed an eternity, she placed the bone back on the plate and made use of a napkin. Her companion returned shortly after. They both discussed how happy they were that their dinner had been low in carbs which apparently warranted the ordering of dessert and coffee.