Dessert

My favorite waitress always offers me the dessert menu and I always politely decline. Dessert is my favorite meal. There’s something oddly perfect about stepping out into the night from that restaurant you love with a sweet taste in your mouth. But it is an elusive high, because my cheapskate upbringing has ingrained in me that one does not simply order dessert.Now that I’m a frequent flyer on the dating scene, however, I am told that it’s supposed to be romantic to split a dessert (and less fattening). But with the permission to order dessert for two comes the fear of looking like a fatso.

What if I accidentally eat one atom more than half of that fudgey raspberry espresso brownie with caramel drizzled over in it in perfect zigzags? Will he see my pleasure or portents of my porkiness? 

What is a girl to do when her date gives her that knowing look and the waitress is standing right there with the forbidden menu? Do I accept the dessert menu, flip through it listlessly, and hand it back? Do I say yes, I would love dessert and risk hearing my date groan at the thought of spending another few dollars? 

I stammer and glance furtively at my date. I ask the waitress to recite the dessert menu, a compromise between self denial and actually committing to dessert and an afternoon on the treadmill.

The waitress is probably thinking, look, if you don’t want dessert just say so and I’ll go make my rounds. Besides, your date looks like a cheap tipper and I’m not paid to stand here all day.

A voice breaks my merry-go-round of what-ifs, “That sounds good, what do you think?”

“Yes, I would like dessert,” I reply breathlessly. 

Then I realize that the voice belonged to the man at the next table. He had just ordered steak à poivre, medium rare. I am a deer in headlights, a ship on the rocks. 

The waitress slaps down the dessert menu. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to check on you,” she says with the sweetness of stevia.

My date just smiles and pats my hand. “How about a banana split?”