Sundays at Tiffany's
Chapter One
EVERY DETAIL of those Sunday afternoons is locked in my memory, but
instead of explaining me and Michael right off, I'll start with the
world's best, most luscious, and possibly most sinful ice cream
sundae, as served at the St. Regis Hotel in New York City.
It was always the same: two fist- sized scoops of coffee ice cream,
swirled with a river of hot fudge sauce, the kind that gets thicker,
gooey and chewy, when it hits the ice cream. On top of that, real
whipped cream. Even at eight years old, I could tell the difference
between real whipped cream and the fake-o nondairy product you
squirt from a can.
Across from me at my table in the Astor Court was Michael: hands
down the handsomest man I knew, or have ever known, for that matter.
Also, the nicest, the kindest, and probably the wisest.
That day his bright green eyes watched me gaze at the sundae with
undisguised delight as the whitecoated waiter set it in front of me
with tantalizing slowness.
For Michael, a clear glass bowl of melon balls and lemon sherbet.
His ability to deny himself t ... read full excerpt from: Sundays at Tiffany's ebook
