Chocolate Mousse

“So how did you guys meet?” I asked. The four of us were having dessert.

“Ooh, do tell,” said my wife.

Deb and Mike looked at each other, she smiled.

“Well, it was in college,” she said, “But…”

“But we did not meet meet until afterwards. It was, uhm, five years later?”

“Seven,” she said. “I was at a sales conference in Wichita. It turned out it was Mike’s hotel. He did not recognize me at first, but I did.”

“How were you guys in college?” my wife asked.

“Oh, you know,” said Mike, “We just passed each other in the hallway. We met at some parties, said hi. How about you guys? How did you meet?”

“It was an excavation trip in Peru, I think,” I said.

“No, it was that Caribbean cruise,” she corrected.

“Or was it in Newark? That Italian place, where those old mafia guys used to hang out?”

“The mall in Phoenix when that security guard had a heart attack and we both helped? Just two strangers facing a medical emergency.”

“Or the suburbs when we were kids? You were always my favorite girl.”

“Okay, okay,” said Mike, “You two nut jobs can cut it out. We get it.”

“This mousse is great,” said Deb. “You know? I like to call it mouse.”

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