Twinkie, Twinkie, Little Star

Story Sent in by Misty:

On my way to meet Alvin for our first date, he texted me, "You like Twinkies?"

I wrote back, "When I was younger. Why?"

He didn't respond, but when I met him in front of the restaurant where we had planned to have dinner, he asked, "Can we make a quick pit stop?"

We went into a nearby gas station to look for Twinkies. They didn't have any. We then walked a few blocks further to a grocery store. They had Twinkies there. He bought a box.

"I want Twinkies tonight," he explained. That much was clear. As for myself, I wanted dinner, but we had already established online what I thought was a good enough rapport for me to indulge his junk food craving for a little bit before dinner.

He led me to his car, he opened the trunk, put the Twinkies inside, closed it, and we returned to the restaurant.

All seemed well until our drinks were served. I had a diet pop, he had a Sprite. He took a sip of his drink, then said, "Damn, I want a Twinkie now. Be right back."

He slipped out of the booth and left the restaurant, presumably, to grab a Twinkie from his trunk. My mood shifted from, "Oh, Alvin… so silly in his quest for Twinkies!" to "I hope that this doesn't significantly affect the quality of our date any more than it already has."

He returned and said, "That hit the spot. So, how was work today?"

I discussed my day with him, looked at the menu, and when the waitress came by again, we ordered. I then asked him, "What do you have planned for the weekend?"

"Excuse me," he said, then left the restaurant again.

When he came back, I asked him, "Did you seriously go and eat another Twinkie?"

"Yes," he confessed, "But only one."

I said, "You want to maybe wait until after dinner to eat any more?"

He sighed. "That depends on you."

"Me? How does it depend on me?"

He asked, "Do you have any plans for the summer?"

I persisted. "How does your eating of Twinkies relate back to me?"

He said, "Can we just move past it? The more we talk about them, the more I'll want another."

I said, "Fine," and we talked about our respective summer plans.

Our food arrived. He stood up and said, "You know what would go great with this?"

I frowned at him, and without waiting for my answer, he left again. I started on my dinner. When he returned, he had a smile.

"I got smart," he said, "I brought some in with me. A little crushed, though."

As I watched, he pulled one out and spread its crumby bits all over his dinner, which was a roasted half-chicken. He didn't glance up at me once as he dug in. It didn't make me lose my appetite, but it came close.

He finally looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry, I'm being rude." He then handed me another Twinkie from his pocket. "Try it on your wrap," he suggested.

"No thanks."

He stuffed it back in his pocket and we ate our dinners in relative silence. After dinner, we left the restaurant and he said, "Look, I'm sorry about the Twinkies. It must have seemed weird."

"It kind of was," I said, "You must really like them."

"Oh…" he said, then quivered slightly, reared his head back, and belched a mighty burp, right into my face. I cried out and jumped away. "That answer your question?" he asked with a smile.

"That you're a complete idiot, yes!" I yelled, and stormed back to my car.

"It was from Twinkies! It smelled sweet! Come on!" he called after me, but I was done with that loser.