Dining Out

Since she’d said “fuck” three times in the first fifteen minutes of our third date, I figured I’d reached a mathematically perfect point in the dating spectrum.

“Is something wrong?”

“This dress is new.” She said.

For me?

“It’s for my sister’s wedding, but I think the sugar syrup in this stupid margarita’s fucked it for good.”

“I live close by–I’ve got lots of cleaning products.”  Ideal scenario, yes…

She looked at me needfully.  I gave her my napkin.

“Fucking shit.”  She said.  “It’s not the margarita.”  She finished it off.  “It’s the wrong color.”

“I’ve got lots of cleaning products…”

“Got any tampons?”

“Sorry…”

“Do you have a car?”

“I walked…”

“Fuck.”  She dabbed at the mess down near her seat.  Half of a large chimichanga sat desperately ignored in front of her.  “I tend to have a high flow.”

“Were I MacGyver, my suggestion would be…”

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