#270

Megan went on a date. The gentleman was chivalrous and handsome, suited and booted and bearing flowers, and balding (which is beside the point). The Girl Scouts host a daddy-daughter dance and we had a blast. We supped at a cozy Argentinian place before we annihilated the dance floor at school. Dinner was splendid. Megan had tomato soup, breadsticks, and a meatball. I had scallops on crostini with a balsmic reduction, followed by crab-stuffed tortellini in saffron cream. We chased it all with molten chocolate cake, which Megan ate 98 percent of. Megan declined my drink offer. Good girl. (She prefers water, even when greenlighted for Sprite, lemonade, or a Shirley Temple.) She was awkward about some of the overstated courtliness, and I can't blame her; I get doors for her and her coat and so on, but we were dressed to kill and making a show of it. She wrinkled her perfect nose at me when I scurried and fawned and fussed, and before dinner she emptied her purse on the white tablecloth, just for fun. And, as usual, she got chocolate on her face. My heart sang. She is still cuter than a thousand puppies. She is approaching, however, the delicate frontier called beauty. She looked spectacular in her new dress, fancy shoes and matching purse, terrific jewelry, a corsage, and – this one's a biggie – eye makeup. Hmm. Okay. She was happy and confident and never stopped dancing. Her daddy can shake it too. We finished the evening with friends at a lovely ice cream shop. It was a terrific date. I'll never forget it.