Italian Love

We need to talk… and, you might want to sit down for this.

I didn’t mean for this to happen, but last night I cheated. I know, I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself. I had every intention of staying loyal, but this Italian overtook my good senses.

From the second I walked into the place, I could feel my resolve fading away. All of my senses came alive as the aroma of sweet, sensual garlic filled the air. I told myself to stay strong, but the offering of warm fresh bread and a bowl of garlic soaked olive oil were dangled in front of me like Anteros, the Italian God of love and passion, and I was sucked in.

How could I resist such beauty? I told myself, “there’s nothing wrong with looking, right?” but set out to devour the feast in front of me, as I perused the menu. I know I said I would be faithful, and really I meant to, but somehow I got caught up in the moment.

In a show of strength, I decided on the bolognaise over grilled vegetables.

But when the moment came I blurted out “I’ll have the stuffed shells with bolognaise please, and a glass of cabernet”… knowing there was no turning back.

I will admit, I enjoyed every delectable mouthful, and I’m probably over sharing. But I want you to understand this was a one-night thing. I have already suffered the consequences of my actions.

As I lay in bed with my belly bloated and reeking of garlic, I felt miserable. The Italian was haunting me like a lover who didn’t realize this was just a one-time deal. Embarrassed by unladylike belching for hours, and a fitful night of sleep, I knew I had to fess up this morning.

So, please forgive me. While it was fun and self-indulgent, I just threw away the Italian’s number.

 

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