331. After ten minutes of lunchtime discussion on pork.
Princess Peach: "Why is the Belgian trying to explain pancetta to the Italians, and the Italians trying to explain speck to the German??"
332. I am at work. 7 pm and the phone is ringing. Gaston is on the other end, the flashing screen tells me. The familiar scenario suddenly reminds me of the last time he ever called when I was at work, to ask if I wanted him to prepare dinner, the evening that ended with us in each other's arms, doing a tango on the wooden makeshift dance floor in our living room. By the time I snap back to reality, Gaston has already hung up. Still feeling warm and fuzzy at the sweet memory, I call him back. "Hey, what's up?" "Well, I have a little question," Gaston replies, shyly. "Yes?" "Did you bring back home the Wii controls?"
333. It is almost midnight. "I LOVE YOU," screams Gaston, a little too passionately, "JACKIE!" On the wide TV screen, his Jackie has just hit a home run, colourful confetti appearing out of thin air and falling down all over the Wii baseball field. "That's my Jackie," he proudly tells me, before resuming the position of a batter, the Wii control clutched firmly between both hands, raised sideways, ready for Jackie to once again perform magic.
It has been a few deeply romantic hours.
332. I am at work. 7 pm and the phone is ringing. Gaston is on the other end, the flashing screen tells me. The familiar scenario suddenly reminds me of the last time he ever called when I was at work, to ask if I wanted him to prepare dinner, the evening that ended with us in each other's arms, doing a tango on the wooden makeshift dance floor in our living room. By the time I snap back to reality, Gaston has already hung up. Still feeling warm and fuzzy at the sweet memory, I call him back. "Hey, what's up?" "Well, I have a little question," Gaston replies, shyly. "Yes?" "Did you bring back home the Wii controls?"
333. It is almost midnight. "I LOVE YOU," screams Gaston, a little too passionately, "JACKIE!" On the wide TV screen, his Jackie has just hit a home run, colourful confetti appearing out of thin air and falling down all over the Wii baseball field. "That's my Jackie," he proudly tells me, before resuming the position of a batter, the Wii control clutched firmly between both hands, raised sideways, ready for Jackie to once again perform magic.
It has been a few deeply romantic hours.
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