The Alimentary Affair

Clara, whose dating life had begun to resemble a post-apocalyptic wasteland where only the desperate scavenged for lukewarm affection, found herself across from Mark. He had a charming smile, a decent job, and, surprisingly, a penchant for bringing his own cutlery to restaurants. 'Germs,' he'd explained with a conspiratorial whisper, brandishing a sterile-looking titanium spork. Clara, who usually considered a clean fork a bonus, decided to roll with it. The appetizers arrived, a plate of artfully arranged bruschetta. Mark, after meticulously sterilizing his spork with a pocket-sized UV light that hummed faintly, took a bite. He chewed, thoughtfully. Then, with a glint in his eye that suggested he was about to reveal the secret to eternal youth, he leaned forward. 'You know,' he began, 'I've been perfecting the art of the pre-chew.' Clara blinked. 'The... what now?' Mark nodded sagely. 'For optimal nutrient absorption and reduced digestive strain, I pre-chew about 30% of my partner's food. It's a game-changer for intimacy.' He then, without so much as a 'by your leave,' offered her a slightly macerated piece of bruschetta from his spork. Clara stared. The bruschetta, once a beacon of Italian charm, now looked like a tiny, beige crime scene. 'Oh,' she said, her voice a thin, reedy sound. 'That's... incredibly considerate. And also, I think I just remembered I have to spontaneously join the circus. Tonight. Yes, tonight. They need a human cannonball, apparently, and I have the perfect build.' She was halfway out the door, weaving through tables like a person fleeing a zombie apocalypse, before Mark could offer another pre-chewed morsel, his titanium spork glinting under the restaurant lights, a silent, sterile testament to a very unique (and single) form of courtship.