All’s Well That Ends Well
I’d been friends with a girl for a while through high school and college. We’d hung out at school/parents’ houses/parties so we knew each other well. I eventually convinced her to date me. Being 19 and in suburbia, the Olive Garden was the nicest place I could think to take her.
The dinner was uneventful and pleasant. As we were driving back to a friend’s apartment, we sense that something is greatly amiss in our stomachs.
We’re just kind of looking at each other nervously as I’m driving and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am: “hurry up and get to the apartment.”
As we run through the door, we’re greeted by a single, unoccupied bathroom. We spent the rest of the night taking turns delivering relatively undigested salad, breadsticks and chicken parmesan to the Clayton County sewers. Six years later, we married.