Mr. Authoress and I were enjoying wine and chocolate-coated biscuits by candlelight on the screened in porch. Stirred, no doubt, by the sheer romance of the moment, he leaned close and kissed me.
"MMMMM. You smell like salad."
I pulled back, eyed him. "What?"
"You smell like salad." He kissed me again. "Your lips taste like lettuce."
And there you have it. I'm not going to write YA Fantasy anymore. I'm going to write romance novels. Because how I could live with myself without transcribing this great, real-life material into a story?
Miss Snark's First Victim
Lettuce? LETTUCE? *is stunned*
ReplyDeleteMan, you just can't fake a gem like that. Better get moving an a bodice-ripper book right away so you can use it...
Wow.... that's just.... wow....
ReplyDelete*giggles*
If you're moving into Romance stories, don't forget the heaving bosoms and bare chested pirates. Molten, velvet lips, too. And ribbons of pleasure always make things better.
ReplyDelete;)
I thought it was more like spinach. You did have spinach and lettuce for dinner.
ReplyDeleteI'm in tears. That's priceless.
ReplyDeleteShould we start calling you Popeye?
ReplyDelete*slaps knees*
Aw! Why can't I get a man like that? ;)
ReplyDeleteIt ranks up there with the gift of supermarket vouchers for my Christmas gift. Slighlty better than the vacuum cleaner of the year before.
ReplyDeleteWas it a Dyson? The women in the office talk about Dysons all the time. Maybe Mrs. Authoress should get one. Good idea.
ReplyDeleteRemind me not to read posts like this while eating/drinking... you lot are out to ruin my computer screen, I swear! :P
ReplyDeleteIt was a Dyson. Telling me it was in my favourite colours didn't work so don't try it on your lovely wife, Mr Authoress. My husband still has the scar.
ReplyDelete