‘That’s MY lamppost, ya manky custard pie!’ came the tart voice of the undulating pastry shape lurking in a slightly-moon-lightened dark street. ‘Get ya’ own, ya lazy pudding!’
Her short crust wobbled erotically in the semi-dark, causing a semi of quite another kind in a passing sausage roll. Her creamy filling, made darkly exotic by chips of freshly-ground nutmeg, vibrated winsomely against the subtle thrills of melted cheese and the brashly strutting notes of firm tomato.
Tart, she was, in every sense – sharp, a sexy combo of setting egginess in a pale beige case and no better than she ought to be in the competitive world of selling oneself – but, this being an upmarket suburb, she preferred to be known as Quiche Lorraine (though the Lorraine always struck her as a trifle common).
Still, she could loiter and heave her heavenly bits with the best of ’em! She could undulate suggestively in her tin, to a chorus of indrawn moans and gasps and decidedly erect tongues from the other side of the thick glass.
She knew, with every delectable millimetre of her soul, that she outshone them all – even the mammary-gland shaped tartlet (common little trollop) – oozing her raspberry fondant and whipped cream for all the world to see – on the shelf below.
She knew that no incursion from large tarts (hailing from Foreign Parts, having unpronounceable names and tasting revolting) could budge her from her prime spot on Provender’s Boulevard of mouth-watering confectionery and savoury pastry. She was the ultimate tart with a heart – and would fight to the crumbly death to preserve her status!
All she needed in life was a fork! But then, don’t we all, dear? Oh, and a man with a hearty appetite for her kind, and something hard as currency in his pocket of course.
Vehicles of cruising lust shuddered and juddered past the windows. She preened, fluffed out her filling, straightened the wilting edges of wavy crust.
Her earlier shove had dislodged the upstart cream horn whose pathetic muscling-in-upon-the-act attempt had so dirtied the floor – and, when door bell clanged, and deep voice shivered out welcome words; when the cold hardness of china changed into the clinging paper crinkliness of bag, she knew she had scored!