The Tempting Cookie
The gentleman wearing a baseball cap inquires about the delicacy on the pool table and asks, “May I have a bite of the cookie?”
The other man, who’s wearing a pair of nice pants and an impeccable black-tie, gives his baseball-capped buddy an answer. “That, wouldn’t be proper.”
On the green plush of the pool table, the chocolate chips shine from the bar lamp above. The cocktail glasses glimmer and the sound of ice rattling echoes in the room as they are sipped. The rubbing sound of chalk on wood is heard as well, as the man with nice pants chalks his cue for accuracy and power. The cue stick intrudes to line up the next shot. The man with the baseball caps intrudes as well, asking his billiards partner to take caution.
“Well, even though it’s not ‘proper’, could you avoid wrecking the cookie with your next shot?” Mr. Baseball cap asks.
The stick strikes, the balls move then a couple ‘clacks, and the cookie is safe. Mr. Nicepants looks up from the game. “That goes without question of course.”
The smell, the memory of a cookie is engraved into the mind of Mr. Baseball cap. Confusion stands in the way of him and the object of his desire. Why can’t he have the cookie? And why has it not been consumed? The man with nice pants is the reason behind the suffering of the tortured soul.
“Give me the fucking cookie!”
Mr. Nice pants crosses his arms to balance on his pool stick, smirking and confident, in control and neutral. The other pouts and gestures to the cookie.
“You obviously don’t want it. Come on,” he complains.
Mr. Nice pants slowly replies, “Now, how do you know that?”
“Because, you’re so not caring. You just play along, not at all interested that I want the cookie. This game of pool isn’t even important to you. You don’t care, too good to want the cookie, or care about our game of billiards.”
“You are in fact, correct. I don’t care about this game, and I don’t care about the cookie. Although I will admit, it does look mighty tasty. But do not take this lack of concern for other matters in my life. I would usually be interested in winning a game of pool, as you know me. And now that I bring it to mind, I am interested in the cookie. The cookie , and you, have been the object of my concern for the remainder of the last hour. You see, I know someone has been the cause of the recent infidelity with my wife. I have proof. But I don’t have proof of who exactly. So I play this game with every last one of my suspects. It is their reactions, your reactions, to the desirable cookie, that will help me determine who has boned my wife. If they can’t resist the desire, and what they do if they can’t resist, that’s the fruit of my observation. You may have the cookie.”
The man with the baseball cap leans over the pool table to retrieve the cookie, all the while keeping eye contact with Mr. Nice pants. He takes a bite, savoring the chocolate chips and the soft, chewy center.
“So did I pass?”
Mr. Nice pants raises his brow, and begins to line up his next shot. The man with the baseball cap takes another bite of the scrumptious treat, although cautious of the dark tinge behind the satisfied temptation.
“Well, I can tell you this much, you can’t give in to temptation. But, you did ask before taking the cookie.” Mr. Nice pants then takes his shot, which impossibly makes him the victor of the billiards contest, “But I ask you this, had I not been present in the room with you, would you have asked me then if you could have the object of my desire?”
“Not if it was a cookie like this,” and the man with the baseball cap shoves the rest of the delectable treat in his mouth.
