It was a dream date. His name was Chet and he was beautiful and blonde with piercing green eyes.
There were alcoholic bevvies and little kisses. It was sublime; but the best part?
The ice cream.
We drive up and see a family of fatties walking toward our destination.
"Hmm, I think we might be waiting awhile," he said.
"Perhaps."
We got out of the car and sure enough, the family Fat filed into Moo's, one of San Diego's premiere ice cream parlors.
There was a bit of a wait, but I saw it through the glass-it was green, like Chet's eyes, only maybe, with more blue in it and I told the lady behind the counter I wanted it in the smallest sundae they make.
She took the green ice cream and blended chocolate chips into it and then it was placed in a round tiny carton and covered with hot fudge and whipped cream-and then there were nuts. And it nearly dripped over the edge of the carton.
Chet got a brownie bliss, which, while okay-was NOT, no NOT what I had.
Sublime. The silky whipped cream blending with the crunch of the nuts and the warm hot fudge and the mint and the chocolate all blending together felt like a wonderful dream. And then he kissed me.
It was all I could do not to knock over the table and have my way with him that very instant.
But believe me, reader mine, I SHALL!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
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