A twilit stroll through the familiar seaside cape led me to the unfamiliar. I found it tucked into a beachfront promenade. Our eyes locked through the café’s paned glass and my senses blurred. Fading was the din of arcade victories, the scent of taffy and nostalgia in the salt air, replaced with ravenous affection.
All of this bullshit vampiric romanticism prelude to say: I fell head-over-tongue in love — with a tiramisu waffle.
The romance was unapologetically storybook. Girl meets waffle, on a menu. Girl obsesses over waffle for two days, as other breakfast plans have already been made, her unsated infatuation mounting. One morning, girl waits for her sister to wake the fuck up because, despite how badly girl wants waffle, girl still hates eating by herself.
The affair, though brief (six minutes), was voracious. It tirato mi su in all the right places. Twice.
Until we meet again, my sweet — or I learn how to not burn toast — I’ll treasure our summer lovin’ (it happened so fast). Beam adoringly at our single Instagram photo.
And continue to hear new melody in old songs: when the moon hits your eye like a Belgian waffle smothered in Marscapone, chocolate and powdered sugar, that’s a-motherfuckin’-more.