It Wasn't Amore by LisaMay
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I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life! I could lick the wounds of my damaged pride, but I could not chew over the repercussions straight away – because I’d need teeth to do that, and they were now lying in the palm of my hand. * * *
After years in a dating drought, one day a potential suitor had been beguiled by my smile in the frozen foods aisle at the supermarket. He’d gathered his courage and warmly asked me to dine with him. Now here we were at a local Italian restaurant, on our first date. We perused the extensive menu while making hesitant small talk. Both of us were clearly inexperienced at glib, relaxed chat. Oh to be young, baggage-free, and sassy. I was self conscious about whether he would find me attractive, knowing that my inner beauty lay under a woeful welter of wrinkles. He was staring at my lips. He must think I’m kissable! Then I noticed his hearing aids. He’s lip reading! He was also spending a lot of time patting his silver hair while squinting at me through rheumy eyes. I don’t mean bed-roomy. I am partial to spaghetti bolognese; he decided on osso bucco. We ordered grissini breadsticks with olives and dips to accompany our glasses of Tuscan Chianti while we waited for our mains. With my very first bite on the grissini I knew something was wrong. The “snap” sound was more than just the breadstick breaking – my upper denture had split in half right through the centreline! I tentatively tried to hold it together with my tongue, but the sharp edges bit back and, with a tragic yelp, I spat out the two parts into my right hand. How very unladylike. I attempted to cover the unappealing sight of my resulting sunken cheeks with my left hand. Unfortunately, it was holding a fork. After puncturing my face I dropped the fork, which then hit my wineglass, tipping it over and spilling some of its contents into my gentleman’s lap. The glass shattered on the tiled floor, spreading a stain of red to match my pricked and blushing cheeks. What a performance! My date had struggled to his feet, knocking his chair over, while trying to escape the cascading wine. He became so goggle-eyed at my predicament that one of his eyeballs fell out, rolled across the table and broke on the floor. It seemed we both had been sporting replacement parts, now each needing manufacturing attention for repair. We giggled nervously – me while clutching my teeth, and he while bending down to pick up his eyeball pieces amidst the lake of spilt wine. Our situation went from bad to worse. Forward momentum had dislodged his toupee. I tried to distract myself by sucking on an olive, but my chortling snorts made me inhale and suddenly I was choking. A passing waiter grabbed me from behind in the Heimlich manoeuvre. He’d placed his hands a little too high for my sense of decorum, so I spun around to punish his presumption with a slap, just as the olive was dislodged. It smacked into the waiter’s forehead with the force of a catapulted pebble and he dropped at my feet, pulling the checked tablecloth down with him as he fell. I became near hysterical with over-excited mirth. I’m the centre of my very own slapstick comedy! I laughed so convulsively I got hiccups and peed myself. I’ve not seen my companion since – he’s probably still running as fast as his prosthetic legs can carry him.
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LisaMay
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