The lobster lay on the counter, antennae twitching, claws banded but somehow still dignified. I was supposed to plunge it into boiling water. Instead, I hesitated.
Here’s a short piece for “Tickling Lobster”: In which dinner gets mischievous tickling lobster
The lobster shuddered . A tiny, bristling ripple ran down its shell. It raised a claw—slow, judicial—as if to say, Unhand me, fool . I tickled again. This time it flipped its tail once, sharply, and I swear I heard a clicking sound almost like laughter. The lobster lay on the counter, antennae twitching,
Then, absurdly, I touched a feather to its tail. Here’s a short piece for “Tickling Lobster”: In
I laughed too. Then I put the feather down, picked up the pot, and apologized to the lobster.
We ate noodles instead.
Some creatures are not meant to be boiled—only befriended, briefly, on the threshold of a joke.