Bab 851: Picky Eater

Dinner with Irene wasn't as titillating an experience as it sounded like; dim candlelights and the tender warmth of each other's company, gazing deep and lost into one another's eyes over the ripple of red wine in our thin, sparkly glasses.

But in actuality, reality was much more akin to the likes of brown paper bags, wrinkly ketchup packets, and lots and lots of french fries. 

We took our five-star buffet over to her dining table where we sipped on our fizzy drinks and munched on our burgers in a less than… desired intimate moment. 

The mind was a precarious place when at rest, unbearably unpleasant when filled with distractions. Take a guess which part of the spectrum my brain falls on at the moment. 

Much of the blame I put on that damn white door relentlessly taunting me every time I try turning my attention elsewhere. Credit where credit is due though, Irene had yet to say a single word since about her prior proposal.