A Loathsome Secret

This piece was originally written for the challenge Writing Exercise 2: Can we guess your identity from your writing style? posted as a thread in the Author's Hangout forum. Thanks to nice90sguy for organizing it!

The original submission has been edited into a 750-word story below.

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The place fancied itself an authentic Italian pizzeria, and it was definitely quite a few notches above your usual Papa Johns.

It had solid wooden tables dressed up in several layers of cloth, a half-melted candle on each waiting to be lit by a mustachioed waiter in a black vest and striped dress pants. The metal-wrought chairs were all heavy, grating the hardwood floor with an uncouth noise if you dared to disturb their perfect arrangement. Olive oil and Calabrian peppers were the only condiments you could find on every table, and an intense embarrassment should befall you if you even considered asking for ketchup.

Across from the entrance, bulbs of dried garlic hung in front of the kitchen like garlands, warding off nosy customers who'd try to peek at the artisans working inside. A crisp aroma of tomatoes and basil wafted about the place, enshrouding it in an olfactory cocoon that separated it from the dull city outside. Gaudy, effusive vocals of some Italian starlet from half a century ago poured from an old-fashioned radio of Italian make, the lyrics reminding you that this Italian restaurant was, in fact, very Italian.

As Kelly sat at the booked table in the corner, she thought that this was more than a passable locale for a first date.

She had to admit she was excited. Preparing for tonight, she had tried very hard not to appear like she'd been trying very hard. Only a smidgen of tasteful shadow highlighted her deep verdant eyes, along with a puff of pink rouge to make her cute cheeks pop with youthful vitality. She wanted to look casual, almost as though she hadn't applied any makeup at all, and it took her close to an hour to strike the exact balance that she'd been looking for.

When it came to dress, however, Kelly couldn't help but to go for some extravagance, as she'd put on a more elegant, body-hugging garment. The crimson dress accentuated what she considered her best feature, a large and firm ass: the fabric naturally molded itself around each of the shapely butt cheeks. At the same time, below her slender neck, a bold cut into the cleavage allowed the push-up bra to flaunt what a great job it was doing to her ample bosom.

Kelly glanced around the largely empty restaurant, smiling as she thought about her hot date. It wasn't like her, to go out with a guy she had only met on Tinder, but this match had already shown a lot of promise. His name was Ryan, he was an attorney at one of the top agencies in the city, and he had the most delightfully chiseled jawline that Kelly had ever seen. They hit it off very quickly. She was surprised how readily she accepted his invitation to meet in person, only a little over a day after she had swiped right.

Oh, there he was already... My, wasn't he just yummy! This leather jacket suit him really well. Now that he took it off, Kelly wondered how good he'd look if he lost the shirt as well...

"Hey there," he greeted her in a low, vibrating baritone. "I hope you didn't wait long."

"Only a few minutes," she replied, batting her eyelashes as she offered him a hand. He squeezed it firmly, sending shivers of excitement down her spine, which the alluring smell of his cologne immediately steered towards a warm, quickly moistening place between her legs.

He sat down and they exchanged pleasantries. Like all first dates, it started a bit awkward, but Ryan's magnetic smile and charming demeanor easily broke through what little ice there was. Kelly blushed at every heartfelt compliment, fingers twirling her blonde locks as they spoke. She was already catching herself with lewd images in her head: of the two of them in bed, his manly body on top as she moaned and writhed in pleasure...

Soon enough, a waiter greeted the budding couple with only a slightly mispronounced Buongiorno. He lit the candle, handing them two copies of the restaurant's leather-bound menu. Their flirtatious convo thus quickly segued to a new topic: negotiating what ingredients should the native Neapolitan chef sprinkle over their stone-baked pie.

"Well, call me a philistine if you like," she fished for more compliments, "but I think I'd actually go for Hawaiian..."

"Uh, would you mind picking something else? I'm not a fan of pineapple."

Kelly's breath caught in her throat. She looked at him in horror, eyes bulging out as she frantically groped for her purse. Without a single word, she stood up and ran, sobbing quietly as she flew through the door.