Luc Beauthoaise, The Hopeless Romantic
Diane, sweet Diane, your name reads off your Denny’s badge like a poem. It may be just the boysenberry syrup talking, but I think we made a connection this morning.
When you first approached my table (I know it was only hours ago, but to me an eternity) my heart began to sizzle like a butterflied sausage. You must have felt something, as you smiled to me and offered me a warm greeting and were eager to place silverware on the table in front of me. Your kindness stirred me like so much pancake batter, and I knew at once that we would share many more precious moments.
It strikes me as unusual that I should fall in love (so quickly) with someone of your advancing years. But love did not tally your age, or consider your generously stout proportions when it melted my heart like a pat of freshly churned butter. It was the warm and friendly intercourse (dare I use that word?) that we shared that triggered the vulnerable emotion of love.
I don’t think words were necessary for you to express your true feelings to me. I could tell by the number of times you came by to refill my diet cola, and the way you cleared away my plates in a familiar manner.
When you spoke those words: “will there be anything else?” I felt an electricity between us. My blood began to rush as fast as it could, even with my veins clogging from the half-cooked bacon strips.
Diane, my dear Diane, I hope a fifteen-percent tip is enough to show my devotion to you. I shall return again on the morrow, to gaze yet again upon your plump and motherly bosom, held up loosely by the frail strings of your apron.
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