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The violinist lets out a shrill note and I'm immediately pulled out of the conversation, not to say I had any interest in it to begin with. First dates are rarely effortless, but I don't remember having to ever work as hard to keep the dialogue moving as I am now.
Becca laughs and says, "Bacon!" "I beg your pardon?"
"Bacon," she says, again. "Isn't it great how bacon goes with everything?"
Since bacon was not involved whatsoever in the previous string of our conversation, I must assume this is some quirky outburst. I don't recall marking "Loves quirky outbursts" on my compatibility form. I let my ears and mouth engage Becca while my eyes and mind were on the violinist.
At the end Becca stormed out the door and screamed,"The Baconian Method concerns the various ways of cooking bacon. My daddy said so!" My God, she was still talking about bacon.
The violinist winked at me. I never had an old man wink at me before. A whistle, sure. Even an ass-pinch wasn't uncommon, but a wink? A chill runs down my spine causing me to shudder slightly.
Becca is gone, which means I am now 0 for 6. My Get-Married-To-A-Redhead goal is failing miserably. Midnight's the deadline. I glance at my watch. Quarter to nine. Where was I supposed to find a redhead, let alone one that would marry me by midnight? The restaurant was now completely free of gingers, natural or otherwise. The violinist winks at me again.
"You know, I was a strawberry blond once upon a time," he says. Turns out the violinist was just epileptic.
I apologized profusely for my marriage proposal from the confines of the violin gutted on my head. It was Vermont after all, and I was desperate. My uncle's will didn't specify the gender, only that it had to be a redhead before midnight tonight. Meanwhile, who should come back into the beanery, but Becca. "Francis Bacon," she said, as if to challenge me. "The philosopher or the painter?" I said. "I didn't ask," she said, "but whichever, he's back in the kitchen, rearranging the canned goods. And by the by"--she winked--"his hair is Red. Deep, burnished red. Unfortunately, Mr. Bacon had the misfortune of dying over 18 years ago. He was remarkably well preserved, though, stacking cans of green beans into a bas-relief figure of a screaming head when I entered the kitchen. "Marry me," I said. Dead or not, a fortune was at stake. "Get thee back into the cupboard!" cried the chef. Mr. Bacon fled his art, shuffling into the pantry. "I have cured Bacon using a process that will forever doom the undertaking industry! And my--urk!" The chef keeled over clutching his left arm; his LDL was f*cked. The pantry doors rattled. Meanwhile, the violinist had picked himself off the floor. The pantry doors, still trembling on their hinges, indicated Mr. Bacon's absence from the immediate scene. The chef had collapsed. Judging from his apoplectic features, his low-density lipoprotein--LPL for those offline--was off the charts. I stood aghast, my jaw on the floor, my fillings tinkling away. Pandemonium followed me and my mad quest. I cursed my uncle. The chef imitated a dying fish. The violinist staggered along to fall onto the chef, his mouth palpitating the other's. Becca smirked. "I guess you're out of options." Becca picked her way through the pantry, brushed her fingertips along the cabinets as she continued through the kitchen, and walked into the backyard. It was a clear night, the stars sharply focused points of light in the dark firmament. She glanced at her watch. Two hours to go.
Becca laughs and says, "Bacon!" "I beg your pardon?"
"Bacon," she says, again. "Isn't it great how bacon goes with everything?"
Since bacon was not involved whatsoever in the previous string of our conversation, I must assume this is some quirky outburst. I don't recall marking "Loves quirky outbursts" on my compatibility form. I let my ears and mouth engage Becca while my eyes and mind were on the violinist.
At the end Becca stormed out the door and screamed,"The Baconian Method concerns the various ways of cooking bacon. My daddy said so!" My God, she was still talking about bacon.
The violinist winked at me. I never had an old man wink at me before. A whistle, sure. Even an ass-pinch wasn't uncommon, but a wink? A chill runs down my spine causing me to shudder slightly.
Becca is gone, which means I am now 0 for 6. My Get-Married-To-A-Redhead goal is failing miserably. Midnight's the deadline. I glance at my watch. Quarter to nine. Where was I supposed to find a redhead, let alone one that would marry me by midnight? The restaurant was now completely free of gingers, natural or otherwise. The violinist winks at me again.
"You know, I was a strawberry blond once upon a time," he says. Turns out the violinist was just epileptic.
I apologized profusely for my marriage proposal from the confines of the violin gutted on my head. It was Vermont after all, and I was desperate. My uncle's will didn't specify the gender, only that it had to be a redhead before midnight tonight. Meanwhile, who should come back into the beanery, but Becca. "Francis Bacon," she said, as if to challenge me. "The philosopher or the painter?" I said. "I didn't ask," she said, "but whichever, he's back in the kitchen, rearranging the canned goods. And by the by"--she winked--"his hair is Red. Deep, burnished red. Unfortunately, Mr. Bacon had the misfortune of dying over 18 years ago. He was remarkably well preserved, though, stacking cans of green beans into a bas-relief figure of a screaming head when I entered the kitchen. "Marry me," I said. Dead or not, a fortune was at stake. "Get thee back into the cupboard!" cried the chef. Mr. Bacon fled his art, shuffling into the pantry. "I have cured Bacon using a process that will forever doom the undertaking industry! And my--urk!" The chef keeled over clutching his left arm; his LDL was f*cked. The pantry doors rattled. Meanwhile, the violinist had picked himself off the floor. The pantry doors, still trembling on their hinges, indicated Mr. Bacon's absence from the immediate scene. The chef had collapsed. Judging from his apoplectic features, his low-density lipoprotein--LPL for those offline--was off the charts. I stood aghast, my jaw on the floor, my fillings tinkling away. Pandemonium followed me and my mad quest. I cursed my uncle. The chef imitated a dying fish. The violinist staggered along to fall onto the chef, his mouth palpitating the other's. Becca smirked. "I guess you're out of options." Becca picked her way through the pantry, brushed her fingertips along the cabinets as she continued through the kitchen, and walked into the backyard. It was a clear night, the stars sharply focused points of light in the dark firmament. She glanced at her watch. Two hours to go.
