The last sweet bite of tiramisu sat glistening in the center of the white china plate between them, the moist delicateness of the dessert’s remaining nubbin illuminated by a golden votive.
Each stared longingly at the slicelet, desirous gazes breaking only to reconfirm the other’s posture wasn’t signaling a sudden move. They both leaned slightly forward in their chairs like two gunslingers at a showdown: fingers twitching, hovering beside triggers.
Jack was the first to break the standoff, relaxing back in his chair. Setting the fork down. Patting his belly exaggeratedly.
“You can have the last bite. I’m stuffed.”
Jill knew immediately what her husband was up to. If she took the last bite now, she’d never hear the end of it. Even though she’d intentionally “saved room,” even though it was their anniversary, if she were to fall into his trap and finish the dessert, Jack would undoubtedly use this moment of weakness to his advantage at a later date. One final mouthful of chocolatey, mascarponey goodness wasn’t worth the anxiety of wondering when and how her husband might take his revenge.
“No, I’ve had enough,” said Jill, then plopped her fork and napkin on the table with finality.
Jack knew his wife hadn’t had enough. Her appetite for sweets was insatiable. It was why they rarely shared dessert. Jill tended to hoover down her marble cheesecake; her apple pie a la mode: gone in the blink of an eye. The placement of a post-meal dessert upon their table would turn Jack’s wife into a whirling dervish, the area surrounding her dish a chaotic blur of crunching and slurping. Jack, in contrast, preferred to take his time, savoring his crème brûlée by scraping thin layers with his spoon then licking each delicate, creamy strip with exaggerated facial stretches. He knew it made his wife crazy, having to watch him ingest his dessert in slow motion. “Honey,” Jack would say when he could sense she was about to thrust her spoon into his ramekin, “If you want more, just order more. This one’s mine.”
To make matters worse, Jill never gained a single ounce. She was as svelte and willowy as the day Jack first laid eyes on her. This, he felt, was not only cruel, but unfair; he’d been eating with far more nutritious intention, yet over the years his body had only expanded, softened and rounded.
“Yeah, me too.” Jack replied, then slid the dessert plate toward the edge of the table. Check and mate.
Just then, their waiter walked by, noticing that the pair at table twelve appeared finished with their complimentary anniversary tiramisu and approached.
“Can I take this?” He flipped his gaze back and forth between the sharply dressed middle-aged couple, his arm outstretched toward the plate. Jack and Jill glowered at the waiter, their faces pressed into tight, awkward smiles, their fists clenched in stasis.
The waiter tilted his head to the side, sensing some hesitation.
“Neither of you wants to take the last bite?”
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