A Pit-iful First Date

Sarah had high hopes. Mark, across the candlelit table, was handsome enough, if a tad too fond of the word "synergy." The pre-dinner olives arrived, glistening like tiny, dark pearls of promise. Mark, aiming for effortless charm, popped one into his mouth, gave a knowing nod, and... froze.

His eyes, which moments ago had sparkled with potential, now darted around the room with the urgency of a squirrel eyeing a hawk. A faint red flush began to creep up his neck. The pit, Sarah deduced with a growing sense of morbid fascination, was refusing to exit stage left. Or right. Or anywhere.

He tried a subtle cough. Nothing. He took a gulp of water, attempting to "flush" it, only succeeding in making a choked gurgle. He leaned forward, hand over mouth, murmuring something about "a crumb," but his whole body was rigid with the effort of dislodging the tiny, defiant seed. Sarah watched, a silent, internal monologue narrating the unfolding disaster. *This is it, Mark. Your defining moment. Are you a pit conqueror or a pit casualty?*

A waiter paused, noticing Mark’s distress. "Everything alright, sir?"

Mark, startled, managed a strangled "Peachy!" before discreetly, almost violently, spitting the offending pit into his napkin. It landed with a tiny, triumphant *clink* on the china plate beneath.

He sat back, chest heaving slightly, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Right," he announced, as if having just completed a marathon. "Never much cared for olives, actually."

Sarah, stifling a giggle, raised an eyebrow. "Really? You seemed quite... invested."

He managed a weak smile. "Just a bit of an occupational hazard, I suppose. Synergizing with dinner, you know."

Sarah decided then that "synergy" was indeed an occupational hazard, and this date, like that olive pit, was probably better spat out. But it had certainly been memorable, if for all the wrong reasons.