He covered her face with the cottage creamy cheese and raspberry *truffle* ice cream they had ordered together, and now he stood back to determine his artistic prowess.
"Please await a sexual harassment suit," she said, and then she said:
"Did you put any of the strawberrie-"
"Raspberries," he interjected.
She nodded, and peered into his eyes to check whether he was speaking the truth.
"Raspberry ice-cream, maam," he peered back at her. "Nothing less for your excellency."
"Don't ever tell anyone," she said.
"Don't tell anyone which aspect of this?" he replied. She was leaving him, and he deserved to get at least that edge.
"Don't tell them what we did with the raspberry ice-cream."
.
Years later he was staring into that same scene. He knew it was possible that he had started to emulate aspects of her. Hell, let's just be upfront about it -- he was emulating her entire personality every night. Every characterism, every bodily movement of hers, her thought pattern he had been able to grasp during their short time together.
"I will never tell them what it's really like," he said to her.
"Selfish," she said, being cheeky, but clearly feeling secure.
There was note by a flute player, and then she was disappeared.
...
"Bring it on, fiesty-tits, bring it on," he said, unconsciously.
"My job is just serving the coffee buddy," said the new woman. "Good luck."
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