The marriage was veering into dangerous, unchristian territory. They knew this. With only a sliver of longing they parted, dutifully resigned to their higher moral desires. She goes upstairs to spray her face. He remains in the kitchen, heaving.

 He takes a potato and without hesitation puts it to his mouth. His tongue makes the first exploratory steps: swiping and pressing through the firm ridges and rough eyes, trying to find purchase in the potato’s firm body. The earthy, papery coverings melt under his ministrations, but nothing more. With impatience he unleashes his teeth on the golden tuber with nips and grates to little avail. Only the shallowest of grooves mark the wet surface.

 Damn. He’ll have to be rough. Two hands now, to hold the potato still as he slams his jowls down. Juice sprays across his face and mixes with the rapid manufacturing of saliva drooling down the sides of his ferocious bite. More, the animal inside him demands, not so much a carnivore, more like an incredibly frustrated and gluttinous herbivore. Harder.

 The potato twitches under his roughness. Rightfully so. It wails, whines, submits. Good. It knows that it is nothing more than a slutty potato, a means of his own release. At least it’s a smart enough bitch. With that submission he lets loose. Growling, squeezing, devouring its slippery body, the noises echoing throughout the kitchen. His gums ache, but he doesn’t care. He seeks only the sobering earthy taste, the firm resistance that wakes him from his lustful haze. Finally, he manages to break off a sizable piece. He chews. He struggles. He moans. He drools.

 Repeat, until it is done.