relative primes.

Eating the cake was a simple matter. She was enjoying every bite.
With the pretty,
art-deco silver dessert fork,
she first chopped a bit off her slice
then applied pressure to each
little bit from the top,
working the tines trough
the icing then
jamming them into the
spongy part.
Locking the bit of cake so on the fork,
she then lifted and slid it
in between her dentures.
Not a crumb was wasted in the process. And Father, while distracted,
ate pragmatically.
The quest was on albeit
just one of many.
Others will follow and most will be lost.
He looked up apologetically when
his fork scraped the plate,
and searched for forgiveness in her eyes
but she she was oblivious to the noise
and perhaps to him altogether.
“We are like relative primes,” he said
and presently added, “Of sorts,” when his
proposition had gone unnoticed. As for me, I used my hands.