Blind Date

Mangioni's

Mike wiped the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin and excused himself to the men's room.

This was getting ridiculous. I had hoped Mike would be the perfect date. Guess I was wrong. Instead, he was turning out to be just as macho and arrogant as all the rest of them were. Men! Why did I have to have one in my life? Why couldn't I just stay single and enjoy it?

Because I'm a sucker for love, that's why.

Still, why had I let Cindy talk me into this? I hadn't been on a date in months, and it seemed I'd finally grown content with the single lifestyle; all except for Sparky, my dalmatian, that is.

As it turned out, being an independent woman of thirty-two was growing on me. No one else to have to be accountable to but myself. No one else to constantly have to keep up and schedule time together with. No one else-

No one else.

Just who was I kidding? Myself, that's who.

I knew it, too. As a fitness instructor, I see new people all the time, which was one of the main reasons I signed up for the job. I get to meet new people every week who share a common goal of health and wellbeing. And it goes without saying that I don't have to worry too much about my weight because I'm constantly burning off all the extra hip fat.

But so far, my Mr. Right hadn't jogged into one of my classes. And now, here I was with a guy who couldn't be more Mr. Wrong, all because I'd let my best friend Cindy Braddock hook me up with a blind date.

I hailed our waitress and ordered another plate of spaghetti, though I hadn't been too enthused about causing her and the chef the extra trouble. Still, spaghetti was what I wanted, and spaghetti was what I would have; blast the consequences!

With Mike gone, I was glad to be alone for a change. This night seemed like everything was moving in slow motion. I couldn't wait to get home.

At least the scenery's nice, I thought to myself.

Mike knew how to pick a place for a first date; I had to give him that much. Mangioni's was a classy, upscale Italian restaurant that served authentic, traditional Italian cuisine and was owned by an authentic Italian himself, Antonio "Tony" Mangioni.

Low-light chandeliers hung delicately above eachsturdy, woodtable. Except for the pristine white tablecloths, everything-including the silky-soft cloth napkins; the flawlessly clean carpet; the thick, velvet drapes; and even the rose-filled vases serving as centerpieces on the tables-was the color of the darkest Merlot imported straight from Italy itself.

The waiters and waitresses wore spotless white, button shirts tucked into black dress pants. Silky-smooth vests and waist-only aprons, both matching the burnt crimson of the upholstery, adorned their slim and graceful figures.

The only thing that didn't seem to be Italian was the music emanating from the restaurant's ceiling speakers. A soft, soothing Jazz melody filled the room, creating an ambience much more fitting than the stereotypical accordion music Italian's were known for.

Definitely a classy place. I could get used to this.

I was finally starting to settle down when I saw Mike making his way back to my-I mean, our-table. Having decided I wasn't going to let the rest of this night damper my now much calmer mood, I turned my focus to my new plate of freshly prepared pasta, which was now arriving in conjunction with Mike.

I could tell by the steam rising from the plate of noodles and meatballs smothered in marinara sauce-yet another complement to the restaurant's color theme-that tonight was going to be a hot spaghetti night after all.

And I was right...but in more ways than I had initially imagined.

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