The Flenser

“I run a small flensing concern,” I heard myself saying.

“Flensing,” she replied. She was extremely attractive.

“Yes, “I said, “we stay small, to keep close to the creative side, don’t really even try to compete with the big multinationals. It limits our growth potential, but my father taught me that there are more important things.”

“Flensing,” she said again, as if by repeating the word she would somehow gain a deeper understanding of it’s meaning.

“Yeah,” I answered, playing with the glass swizzle stick on my almost empty glass. I really had higher hopes for the conversation. I was considering finding an excuse to wander out to the patio, but she was such an attractive woman.

“Pardon my ignorance,” she said with the beguiling half smile, “but what exactly is flensing?”

“Oh, it’s not really terribly interesting, beyond the flensing community. It has to do with removing the skin and blubber from a whale. Done with very sharp knives. Long handle, big things, really. Hard to master, so I am told,” I said with an imitation bored sigh.

“So you’re told? You don’t do the flensing yourself?” She was well on the hook now. All I had to do was carefully reel her in.

“No,” I scoffed. “I leave that to the real artists. I mostly run the business end, promotion, prospecting, the creative marketing. Never could get the hang of it myself. I was more of a phasianic type, actually. Now my father,” I said, draining my glass, thinking of the pretense to move us deeper into the room, “there was a flenser in the old school. He got right in there and… well, I’m boring you, you don’t really want to hear this, I’m sure.”  Setting myself up nicely.

“No, actually, it sounds quite fascinating,” she said, twisting the stem of her empty glass between her long, delicate fingers. I thought about what those fingers, and her slightly buck teeth, could do to me – would be doing to me relatively soon, if I played my cards right.

“Do you need a refill,” I said, gesturing toward her glass with my own. “I know I could use one. Can I get you another…”

“Cosmo, “ she said. “Yes, I’d love one.”

“Here, let me have your glass, I’ll pop over to the bar and get us both another. Don’t you go anywhere.”

“I’ll be right here,” she answered, handing me her glass, allowing our fingertips to touch just enough to let me know it was intentional.