“So what do you think? Is one a better fit than the other?” I plop my napkin beside my plate. After a salad, it was all I could do to finish half of my half of the sandwich.
“Let’s not talk about guys anymore. Let’s talk about a little dessert,” she holds up a menu, pointing to a picture of a swirly-stemmed cocktail glass filled with brownie bites that have been drizzled in caramel and topped with whipped cream.
“Mol- everything they have here is fake, processed, empty calories.”
“But look at how good it looks!” I ask her to consider how bad it will feel later and she deflates a bit. She holds it up again, half-smiling. “Still no? Really? Okay,” she sets the menu aside and leans in over the table. “Promise not to judge?” I put a hand over my heart. “So, there’s this little bakery down the street that makes their own twinkie. Homemade sponge cake, real whipped cream. Visually? Not all that much to look at. But it tastes like true love. You’ll want it every day for the rest of your life. You just walk in the place and it reeks of quality- they even churn their own butter!”
“It doesn’t sound like much of a fair fight to me, Mol.”
“Yeah,” she says, looking somewhere far beyond where I sit. “It doesn’t, does it? So why does it feel like it is?”