A Love Squashed

We had just pulled up to my high school in my purple Dodge Neon, circa 1999. I in a swishy dress, he in a handsome suit. We walked through the front double-doors, a little nervous and giddy inside. My parents greeted us with big hugs and remarked how much they really liked Bo. We gathered our name tags and followed the nametag woman down the hall to our table for dinner. I was really very excited about being able to attend a Reunion Prom and even more so that Bo would be with me for the fun. We arrived at our table, set for four, and as the nametag lady handed me my first course, I clumsily tried to pull my metal chair out while balancing a bowl of pasta. It dribbled over the side of the bowl, requiring me to quickly wipe the drip with my finger. I was far too preoccupied with getting to sneak a taste of the gorgeous bowl of squash ravioli slathered with the deapest red marina to even consider that it might further drip onto my swishy dress. As I drew my finger toward my mouth for that one sneaky taste,

my alarm clock went off.  The rude, inconsiderate thing.  I freaking love squash ravioli in a delicious marinara sauce, and my jerk of an alarm clock had to go and wake me up a millisecond from my being able to taste it.  Gahhhh, the agony.