Please forgive me. I had just finished noshing on the goat cheese and was starting in on the arugula canapés. Then my gray-eyed Hades (half-desi) date flashed me the look of You-Could-Be. The dew-not-drop-me. The mooning cow. I will not perjure myself — I was startled. I rose from my seat and tripped backwards in a half-crouch. That, in short, is how my elbow found itself in your gazpacho. A shame, it was such a fine gazpacho.

Try and understand, I had no forewarning. We swapped flirty texts, but she knew I plugged my profile in every port. She was on the same page, that minx. She had a Francophone mother. The French and Indian War raged within her as I spilled myself upon her Valley Forge. After all those unreturned volleys, I gave up hope. This dinner was to be my surrender. Looking at the bill I saw a Magna Carta indeed. And then she gave me The Look.

My wrist. Your polenta. Please excuse.

V-Day means Victory.