The cunt-scented candles added an erotic ambience to the dinner, at least in Mat’s mind. He was pleased that Laura, having read his erotic tale of Nils and Emma and her grandmother’s candles, had agreed to do the flavoring, and that had been fun and decidedly sexy. Their dinner guests, Paul and Kira, hadn’t made mention of the sexual fragrance, likely because it was too subtle for their pedestrian noses, Mat joked to himself. He sure wasn’t going to mention anything. And Laura’s apple and cinnamon sauced pork roast probably masked the more intimate aroma imparted by the burning candles.

Over dessert, Kira’s pumpkin pie, Kira asked Mat how the children’s story collection was coming along. “I try to add one new one each day,” Mat told her. I hope to get to one hundred before Easter.

“How many days till Easter?” Paul asked.

“You can ask your cellphone,” Laura said. “Cellphones know everything.” For Christmas Paul and Kira had given each other smartphones, but they were shy about using them for anything but telephone calls. Laura showed Paul how to do it. “Just say ‘Hey Google’ and ask your question.”

“This is so amazing,” Kira blurted. “That Google is so smart. Can I ask it something?”

Mat couldn’t help imagining Kira asking how many orgasms she’d have before morning. He’d missed the question, but he caught the answer. “Meg Ryan.”

“Are you writing any serious stories?” For a moment Mat thought Kira was asking Google. When it dawned on him that she was asking him, he blushed.

Now everyone was looking at him expectantly.

“My children’s stories are serious,” he said, his voice pretending affront.

“He does write poems sometimes,” Laura said.

“Can we hear one?” Kira asked.

Mat directed his frown at Laura. “I’m not sure I can remember any.”

“Roses are red,” Paul said. Then he started laughing. Paul couldn’t stop laughing. He got that way sometimes at his own jokes. When he finally managed to stop, he tried to say “Violets are blue,” but managed only to say “Vi” before self-inflicted mirth overwhelmed him, and fell again to laughing heartily and helplessly.

Mat shook his head. “Paul, you are a seriously wonderful poet.”

“Isn’t he though,” Kira said, rolling her eyes.

“Mat’s poem this morning was an ode to my ass,” Laura said.

That shut everyone up.

“You’re kidding,” Kira said, after what seemed like an eternal silence.

Laura recited the poem.

“Well, that was...” Kira said, a breathlessly pregnant few seconds of silence after the poem’s climactic finish.

“Something,” she concluded.

“Would you like more coffee?” Mat asked.

“I could use a little more,” Paul said.

“Sure, fill up my cup,” Kira said.

“Hey, you’re a poet too!” Paul exclaimed, and then he started laughing again.

“Well, that went well,” Mat told Laura at bedtime. “Your pork roast was wonderful.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Laura said. “Did you like my poem?”

Mat’s smile turned to giggles.

“Don’t do a Paul on us now,” Laura said. “You seriously liked it?”

“It was amazing,” Mat declared. “Almost as wonderful as your ass.”

“I’m so glad you love my ass,” Laura said.

“It’s pure poetry,” Mat said.

Laura smiled, and after rimming the bedroom with what was left of the dinner candles, she turned back the covers and bounded onto the bed. “Now, kind sir, I need you to fuck my poetic ass.”