So last Friday I went on a date with a guy named W.F. At least I think it was a date. It didn’t end in sex, and in my hyper-sexualized state of existence, that threw me into a morass of uncertainty.
We had lunch at Raffaela’s and then we got dessert. He got up to look at the dessert display and came back and said, “I know what I want. It’s this hexagonal tart that’s part raspberry mousse and part chocolate.” So he ordered that, and it came, and it was a regular, triangular piece of dessert. This was my immediate thought: “That’s not hexagonal. I can never love you. You don’t even know basic shapes.” Then a second thought occurred to me and, pretending that I had to go to the bathroom, I got up and snuck over to the dessert case. Indeed, his dessert was only a slice of an originally hexagonal dessert. So I realized I could love him after all.
Of course, it wasn’t a tart, but I can forgive that.
Exceptwaitit is just occurring to me that maybe he said not “tart” but “torte,” which is what it actually wasin which case he is perfect and I love him.
Now I have to figure out if this was actually a date or not.