Crystal and china and sterling do not impress me. Nor does your choice of restaurant with its posh French name and leather covered wine list. Your attempts to hold my hand in some romantic fashion are awkward if not foolish. Without asking me, you tell the waiter that you will order for “the lady,” and a string of dishes spoken in a phony nasal accent ripple from your lips. I wonder who you really are. Early memories of us fade: that day on a beach, just you and me, wearing only cutoffs and sandals, eating chicken tacos, and licking our fingers.
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