Are You Rrr-eal?!

It was a day when the sun did shine and the birdies did sing. I had a scarf on my neck, boots on my feet, and clean hair on my head, and I was about to spend all afternoon with someone good-looking. But first, I had a mission to accomplish. 

This good-looking man had a birthday coming, and my parents wished to give him a present. But because of their busy schedules, they sent me to buy the present for them: a gift certificate to a local Italian restaurant. A local FANCY Italian restaurant, that is. When you walk in, you feel you’ve just walked in to a little European café: candles, savory smells, short men who role their Rs, and lots and lots of food. When I pulled up in my little red auto, I gleefully acknowledged the “Open” sign with a pump of my fist and stepped out to get the job done. 

I stepped through the door and was greeted by two Italian men, one being the owner and chef and the other being the elderly host. I was the only guest in the restaurant. The host asked if I was there for lunch, and I replied that I was simply there for a gift certificate. He nodded and stepped behind the desk to acquiesce.  His pen began to lightly scratch the gilded paper. 

“Are you rrreal?!”

I started slightly at the heavily accented words coming from across the room. “Excuse me?”

“Are you rrreal?” The owner enquired again, leaving his task at the table to saunter up well within my American personal-space bubble. 

“I’m…um…not sure what you mean…”

“Yeah, are you real…like…are there LOTS of you, or just you?” he explained, “Because YOU are BEAUtiful!”

Oh how the flames did caress my cheeks as I gave a giggle to his thunderous belly-laugh and tried to express my…gratitude?

“Oh, hahaha, well THANK you…”

“I’m ORIGINAL, aren’t I? I bet no one ever asked you if you are RREAL before!” He continued laughing as he turned back to his task and I tried to recover my composure while the little old man kept on writing my gift certificate. My cherry-red cheeks were working over time, when he threw one last compliment over his shoulder: “You are GORRGEOUS, honey!” 

“Thank you!” I answered back, feeling like I might’ve forgotten the English language. 

Though I was giggling like a flighty minor character from a Jane Austin novel, I thought the elderly host couldn’t write fast enough; my cheeks needed relief. Soon enough, however, he was done and I was ready to be on my way. “Have a good weekend!” Old man said. 

I replied back, “You too!”

But Italian Charmer called from his table, “No not him, just you!”

I laughed once more and fell into the fresh air with relief. The cherries didn’t leave my cheeks for a good ten minutes.