She set the final dish on the table, stepped back to take a look. Perfect! She smiled, pleased and proud. She tried to relax. He was going to like it. She was sure he was going to like it.
An hour later, porkchops stripped to the bone, wine glass empty, toes bare and touching and tickling -- she can barely breathe for her excitement, and yet she feels utterly calm. Like everything is just right. Perfect.
Then he asks for dessert.
She hides her panic well, keeping her eyes normal, her grin secure. In the refrigerator, she finds only strawberries, and the sour smell of their juice lets her know they aren't an option. Her spirit sinks. How could she have forgotten?
Resigned to her failure, she returns to the table, apologizes for not having thought it out.
He laughs. He leans over, kisses her on the cheek.
He had something else in mind.
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