Tasty Thoughts

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"They refuse to use a water hose for their lawn," Petunia rolled her eyes agitated, then let out a theatrical sigh. "They water their front yard with a plastic watering can- how shabby. They really don't think about how their behavior reflects on the rest of the neighborhood."

"What does that do to you when you see your neighbor walking around with a watering can?"

Petunia raised her top lip and curled her nose as if she'd just smelled something foul. "It's a sense of vicarious shame."

"Do you feel the eyes of the rest of the neighborhood on you?"

"Continue. My husband and I are proud that we fit in so well in the neighborhood. We are an integral part of Little Whining, we are proud of our appearance- our house and garden radiate this."

With an inscrutable gaze, the man sank deeper into his chair, closely observing the movements the erratic, almost manic woman showed in the short time she sat in her chair. Her thin, but neat, fingers seemed to move constantly. They were fast, barely perceptible movements, but they were visible to him. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated as she spoke of her neighbors' shortcomings.

"Cleanliness and to certain extent conformity with the rest of the neighborhood is of course a positive thing. However, the question is whether your own personality and behavior should be measurable in your living environment- especially if this behavior is at the expense of your own peace of mind."

The woman stretched her neck further, accentuating the abnormal length with the sharp lines of the sternocleidomastoid muscle, the muscle clearly visible under her skin. He praised himself for not usually judging a person's appearance, but the horselike features that makeup Mrs. Dursley's ornaments were too profound to ignore. Her elongated, narrow face was twisted into a sour look by the thin lips.

"I'm not the one who should adapt, Dr. Lecter," Petunia snapped, gesturing wildly at the windows overlooking Guildford Cathedral, an immense church built in the Art Deco style. Hannibal knew that the neighborhood where Mrs. Dursley lived was a far cry from Guildford's historic cobbled High Street, but realized the woman felt superior to the populace that lived in Little Whining.

"I have to watch the monstrosity of a woman bent over the weight of the watering can. I'm the one who has to watch dirty drops of perspiration drip down her face. It makes me nauseous," Petunia spat. Her accelerated heart rate was visible in her skinny neck, a movement that could be easily stopped by multiple instruments in Hannibal's office. It would be more satisfying, however, to feel her heart's beating steadily weaken, until her breath caught in the pressure of his finger.

Choices, choices.

"Some people will argue that during this drought it is wise to use rainwater for the garden itself- if it is at the expense of the aesthetics of the garden due to the installation of a rain barrel."

The reaction to the word "rain barrel" was immense on Petunia's countenance. The woman seemed unable to breathe at the moment, her eyes bulging and her lips pursed in horror. "It's indecent," she managed to say in a measured voice. "It's just plain rude, a disgrace to the neighborhood."

Petunia straightened her skirt and straightened her back. "Little Whining is a charming provincial town of Surrey, just a few miles from London. Although I have been speaking with Mrs. Hudson multiple times, she doesn't seem to want to understand that we can ignore the guidelines during the drought. It is really dense to think that a withered lawn is acceptable- however dry and hot this summer may be."

"Now that you talk about it, how does that make you feel?"

"I feel strengthened in my views, justified in my actions."