I’d beholded, for the first time, the interplay of Destiny and Desire that is spawned by the wavering light cast by a single candle on bare skin, specifically her hip, as can occur on a nondescript warm and windless Northern Virginia summer nights when the fireflies copulated by phosphorescent strobe light in the lilac bush outside, and the glisten of sweat on her skin made Reality shimmer, and she and I had had a few glasses of red wine over a satisfying pizza from a local joint (Generous George’s finest: a fully-loaded Georgie Combo) we’d frequented now and then, and the piece de resistance of this Valentine Romance Evening came after I’d renditioned, sans stuff and with a banana as mic, “That’s Amore,” following it up with this ad-hoc poem:
Roses are rouge
Violets can be too
Your Love is so, so true
Like yummy le cordon bleu!
She caved with her demure coquettish grace, inviting me with a “come hither” expression to the threshold of the inner sanctum of her candlelit boudoir, but before she allowed entrance, she placed the palm of one of her hands on my bare chest and whispered with hot breath that hinted of anchovies, to wit:
“Bring the pizza.”
And I knew it was the beginning of something grand.
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