Thursday, October 10, 2013

True story New Orleans

Tip #61 – Found my notes. For the next few days we will discuss Chemo-Induced Peripheral Neuropathy.
Ah hell, we will start tomorrow; I’ve got a much better story today. This is 100 percent true.
The man stood about 6’3”. A mop of dark hair topped his head and the baby face made his age hard to guess. Maybe he was 30. The woman was blonde and about the same age, maybe a year or two older. She had that look of privilege that guaranteed she’d marry well. She thought she was gorgeous even though she teetered on plain and looked like she disdained all bodily functions because poor people did them too.
He had thought it all out. The dim lighting of the Hotel Monteleone’s Criollo restaurant was the perfect romantic spot.
When the couple arrived at their small, white, marble-topped table for two, glasses of chilled champagne were waiting. He had thought of almost everything. Almost, everything.
Dinner was served by a team of professional wait staff that glided effortlessly from appetizer, to entrée, to finally dessert. The waiters and the rest were perfect in their timing and appeared when you wanted and stayed away so as not to intrude.
Eventually the woman moved to his side of the table, cradled his head in her hands, wished him a happy birthday and gave him a loving kiss.
From his pocket he produced a diamond ring, slid it on her finger, and asked her to marry him. It was the kind of ring that women love and other men hope their wives don’t see.
She looked at it, smiled thinly and said, “I can’t answer you right now.” She went back to her side of the table picked up her fork and started eating her dessert as if nothing just occurred. She started making small talk – and no attempt to give the ring back.
All of a sudden the man’s face exploded in a thin sheen of perspiration. He excused himself, got up and paced around the restaurant. Showing great restraint he returned to his seat and she still gaily ate her dinner.
When they finished eating she smiled and asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“I am going to drop you off,” he said. “Go home, have a nice glass of wine, and then go back to your place and stab you in the face.”
I checked the newspaper the next two days and no murders were reported; I was surprised. 

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