The dessert cart floats around tables, and I avert
my eyes knowing that if I see each tart and puff and almond flake before
my mind's made up, I’ll want every item with its corresponding cream
and drizzle! I must
set limits. Hence I decide to refuse any treat that isn't a white powder
topped Swiss Alp emulating champagne truffle.
That in mind I peruse the tiers of temptation,
allow the crème brûlée flambée and raspberry mousse cake escape
their display case to rest upon my plate, and insist to my date
that he share a “portion” of his dish with me. Which dessert was his
to begin with, he’ll never know.