The Clark’s Adversarial Anniversary Dinner

“Won’t you stay for desert?”

His voice was silk, alluding to a knife lurking underneath. Tom was always so proper and planned. The waiter approaching their table seemed to be two linebackers taped together. He was carrying either a pipe or a shotgun. None the less, he carried himself expertly and didn’t drop a course or a roll. The marinara smelled incredible and Patricia would chance poison to eat it, however she stand Tom’s satisfaction.

“You know I can take your friend out?”

“But can you take his friend out as well? He’s a black belt.”

“In what?”

“Take your pick.”

“Tae Kwon Uzi.”

“You didn’t. You couldn’t. That’s expressly against the rules.”

“I told you, no more foreplay.”

“You mean just, just do it?”

“Right here, if you’d have me.”

Tom found her little hands in his red curls, like back when they were new and such things were still exciting. There was nothing shielding him from the two deep oceans he was collapsing into. She was wearing her chestnut hair in a tight braid. When did he stop noticing these things? Alfredo be damned, she was amidst the fettuccine embracing her husband passionately. Slowly, they parted for a chance to breathe. Finding nothing of value in the world above, they returned to their home dark and deep inside a beast with many appendages.

Gingerly, the waiter grabbed the bottle of chianti and glasses. As he pushed the cart back into the kitchen, he caught the eye of the ninja squadron. They were flailing their arms furiously but all the poor waiter could do was shake his head. The waiter still had work to do; the sniper waiting in the eaves still had to be told. The whole team was going out to a midnight screening of something.

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