Somyr Perry likes this idea. I do too, only this one's not fiction. Not by a long shot.
The night we went to Charlie Trotter’s was a debacle.
Food: Delicious. Wine: Powerful. Conversation: Hushed.
We’d planned to do this for years. Literally, years. Brought our finest bottle of red.
But little things went askew.
We got the same course twice (lobster?).
An overly attentive waitress poured water into my white wine (but waived corkage.)
“Happy Anniversary!” she chirped.
That did it. We made eye contact. Smiled. Laughed. Couldn’t help it. Helpless.
After the backstage tour of the celebri-chef's kitchens and studio, he drove me to a home no longer Ours. We kissed. Goodbye.
Silly waitress. Silly assumptions.