The lobster arrived in post-mortem splendor, borne on a silver tray, brick-red, garnished with sprigs of parsley and geranium, served with the silver instruments designed for his dissection and the bowl of baptismal butter. "Oh ..." Orison said, turning her eyes away from the supper she'd selected. "It's horrible!"
"You've no appetite for lobster?" Dink asked.
"I'd as soon eat boiled baby," Orison said, pressing her napkin against her lips.
"Take it away," Dink instructed the waiter. "The lady will have the same order as I." The crustacean, red but undismembered, was again borne aloft by the waiter to be returned to the scene of his martyrdom. "Try a little of the wine, Orison," Dink suggested, tipping a splash of the Riesling into her glass. "It will clear your head."
She sipped. "It helps," she admitted. "What do you suppose happened to me, Dink? It's as though all of a sudden I'd become allergic to lobster."
"In a sense you are, darling," Dink said.
"Such a strange thing," she said.
"Don't let these strange things worry you, Orison," Dink said. "Think this: for everything in the universe, there's an explanation. If you understand it or not, the explanation's still there, curled up in the middle of the mystery like Pinocchio in the belly of his whale. Just have faith in the essential honesty of the universe, Orison, and you'll be all right."
"A comforting philosophy," Orison said. "I can't imagine an explanation for my sudden distaste for lobster, though."