My characters were not behaving well, so Emma’s text asking if I was interested in lunch came at just the right time. “Be there in 2 shakes,” Emma’s next text read. I was trying to think of a clever response involving the flavor of my shake when the door opened and there was Emma, smiling big. I stood up to greet her.

“No need to get up, we’re eating in,” she said.

I looked at her. “But you didn’t bring anything,” I said.

“I did,” Emma contradicted. “Just needs to be unwrapped.”

With that Emma kicked off her sandals, pulled her top over her head, sat on the end of my desk, and pulled off her pants and panties. She lifted her legs, resting her heels on the desk. “Have a taste,” she said.

I devoured her.

After lunch with Emma, I went back to work. I deleted the story I’d been working on and wrote a new one. It was easy to write because essentially I wrote about lunch with Emma. I included just enough of the miserable old story to show how lucky it was Emma came for lunch. There were more puns like that, but nothing overwhelmingly egregious. The truth, after all. The truth about the taste of Emma’s cunt, the flavor of her sex juice, the joy of her orgasms. Yes, it had a most happy ending. And yeah, I’d thrown in a few necessary and decidedly appropriate adjectives, such as exquisite, delicious, and delirious. Hemingway might not have approved, but fuck Hemingway. He didn’t know Emma. I proof-read the story a couple of times, nodding to myself. I emailed a copy of the completed story to Emma and then set about taking a much-deserved nap on the sofa in my writing room.

Emma interrupted my nap before it could get started. “I liked your story,” she said, “and I brought you some dessert. Two chocolate milkshakes.”

“Mmm,” I said, a bit groggy. “What flavor?”

She laughed. “Why, your favorite flavor of course. And best of all, unlimited free refills.” She set the milkshakes on my desk and began unbuttoning her pants.