Why don't you call your grandmother?
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Who attacks you, proud gourd?
Who leaves tiny bites and scratches in your armor?
Who desires your hard flesh, stiff with forbearance?
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"Say, haven't I seen you before," the man leaned way back in his chair and asked the lady at the table behind. The lady, sipping a glass of some tinted, clear liquid, ran her tongue against her upper teeth behind her closed mouth and turned to look at him.
"I don't believe so, and I hope you're not the type to insist on ruining a private lunch."
The man glanced at her dining companion, an older woman, shrugged, and righted his chair. He resumed cleaning his teeth with a toothpick, wiped the spaghetti sauce from mouth with a cloth napkin, and exited the restaurant.