Unsuccessful Dates

The Lover of Liquorice

“This has been fantastic. Do you want to get some dessert?” I asked her in the as her facial features flickered in the candlelight.

“It has been,” she agreed, “Shall we peruse the menu?”

Ah, the proper application of peruse. I thanked a deity above for the well-read woman in front of me.

“You choose,” I said, happy to let the selection of the last meal fall to her.

We talked a little longer, playing with the lingering remnants of the dinner conversation, that was on the subject of the deterioration and bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef. She said she could never subscribe to any form or bleaching, even hair. I laughed and agreed. This girl was truly something.

“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress, that had appeared out of the gloom with a pen and notepad at the ready.

I looked at Kelly, her blond hair pulled back in a neat bun on her head, her small head nodding slightly to indulge the waitress with an answer. The shadows in the restaurant only serve to refine her beauty, bolding her plump lips, deepening her sunken eye sockets and lifting her high cheekbones.

A touch of huskiness permeated her voice as she vocalised her order.

“We’ll get a liquorice panacotta with pineapple. To share,” she said, grinning at me.

But I was already gone, my chair empty, my coat cast over my shoulders. I could not love a lover of liquorice. How could I, knowing that even as I kissed her, touched her, held her, there was a piece of her that craved for the black candy, produced from the anus of Satan himself?

Matt Querzoli is not this shallow in real life, but that doesn’t stop his fictional characters from being. Follow his writing blog, his letters to strangers blog or his blog blog if you liked the post, or even the bloke himself if this tickled your proverbial pickle.

Like the bloke.

Follow the bloke.

Be the bloke.