Remember. Know what you're eating before the third bite!
Flickering candlelight danced across polished silverware, placed upon immaculate linen with precision and hope. I lowered the cruet and carefully drizzled raspberry-vinaigrette atop fresh greens, julienned baby carrots and strands of parmesan.
I exhaled with relief and checked the time. My body thrummed when I realized that in mere moments Amanda would be here. My honey-haired, emerald-eyed muse, Amanda. An idiot’s grin split my face and my cheeks felt flush. I was grateful she’d accepted my invitation for dinner, a last ditch effort on my part to rekindle the passion we’d both shared once upon a time. Longing glances at the restaurant, working side by side on the line, “accidental” brushes of flesh upon flesh. A whirlwind of passionate lovemaking and bliss, followed by a cold distance, growing longer each day since. I missed her, needed her. According to legend, just three bites of my painstakingly prepared putto con le ali would fan the embers of our love into an eternal inferno.
A chime sounded from the kitchen, reminding me of the entrée. As I entered the kitchen, the aroma hit me first. A mouth-watering smell of gentle summer breezes, fresh-cut roses and a subtle undercurrent of sweet cinnamon. I slipped on a pair of mitts and removed the roast.
Tears sprang to my eyes.
Golden-brown skin, moist and beckoning. Rounded curves and succulent, tender flesh, glistening with boysenberry-infused sherry au-jus and sprigs of rosemary for flavor. One last step remained. The kitchen shears cut through tendons and ligaments. With no small effort, I yanked the singed snowy white wings from the cherub’s back and tossed the plumage into the trash bin.
The doorbell rang.