I Loaf You

"I like my relationships like I like my bread," she said. "Light and airy."

"Ha!" he laughed.

"Yes! Some like a hard, crusty bread. None of that for me."

"But the holes," he reasoned. "That's where the light and air comes from. It'll be full of holes." He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. Oh! Oh, this one's a keeper!" she turned and shouted to no one in particular. "I'll have what he's having!" They laughed and laughed.

"Love is what happens when you're too tired to argue anymore."

"That's nice," she said, "who said that?"

"My father." He stopped laughing and awkwardly stared at the candle in the center of the table. "Love!" he shouted as if nothing had happened, "Love! should be like a thick-cut Italian loaf. So, so soft, able to sop up all of life's goodness."

"Mm!" she said with a mouth full of wine, and "Oil!" upon swallowing. There was a brief pause. "Salt and pepper!" they both exclaimed. They were having the time of their lives, I'm told.

The server arrived, setting down a basket, its contents covered by an impeccable white cloth napkin. The dry-mouth of anticipation seemed to last all night as they carefully drew it back. Underneath?

"Breadsticks!" They laughed, and cheersed, and ate.