Our Second Date

I can’t seem to keep my hands off of her.  Images of her dance in my head, obsessing me, drawing me deeper and deeper into her world. People do crazy things when they’re in love—I spent yesterday afternoon scouring the neighborhood, hoping to surprise her with fresh rhubarb. But alas, that was not to be. Instead I gave her strawberries and blueberries, as promised.

It took her 40 minutes to primp and preen as she prepared for our date. I sat upstairs, waiting, her intoxicating perfume fueling my anticipation. Would our second date be as good, as satisfying, as glorious as our first?

It was better…infinitely better.

I have another confession to make, though. I have cheated on her already. I would climb the highest mountain for her, swim the deepest sea, but I don’t have a food processor and couldn’t face the agony of blending the flour and butter by hand. I used soft margarine instead. I thought she would be angry, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

She is a tart, after all.

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