He left the oven on again
It all began at the dining room table
What I wrote is below (which may be a prompt in and of itself!).
The night began with a vodka soda (two-for-one all night on Mondays), and moved into sparkling rosé, which should have been a red flag.
We were pressed into the corner table—me and my posse, the three musketeers—and Jay-Jay was ignoring us.
“Sorry guys,” he said in his 6’6 baritone. “I got five tables at the same time. You all came at once tonight.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to get a rise out of him,”my milkshake brings all the boys to the bar.” He got a kick out of that one.
It must have been the Indica we smoked beforehand that made me extra sassy, because I even spoke Spanish to Rafael.
“He’s married,” Reynaldo told me for the hundredth time, “to a woman!”
“So?” I snapped. “I still want to stare into his shiny brown eyes.”
Afterward, we headed to the crème brûlée food truck, but wouldn’t you know it, it wasn’t there. So we decided to have dessert at Gino’s, where I was mesmerized by the freckled, strawberry-blonde Irish bartender who made me two (count ’em: two) foo-foo drinks.
That’s where I took a wrong turn.