The Bite 013: Richard Almost Redeemed Himself... Until Dessert.

It was date night. Not just any date night.

Post-meatball redemption tour date night.

I wore his favorite color — red. A low-cut shirt strategically highlighting the girls like two dairy-free promises of what could be.

It wasn’t just an outfit. It was a test. A carefully curated ensemble that said, “Be useful, Richard, or sleep on the couch forever.”

We sat down. The lighting was moody. The kind of moody that says, “There’s probably gluten in the air, but we charge extra for bread.”

Menus opened.

I even ordered wine like I was living a normal life.

And then the moment came.

I asked, gently to the waiter:

“Hi! Just wondering — what kind of broth is this made with?”

And the waiter — bless his underpaid soul — said with full confidence:

“Oh, it’s just beef.”

JUST. BEEF.

Cool. So it’s not broth — just a warm cup of betrayal.

To be clear: I can eat chicken. But red meat? Absolutely not. Dairy? Also no. Beef broth? That’s just forbidden fondue in disguise.

But the way he said it? Like I’d asked if the broth had salt in it and he was reassuring me it was “just Himalayan.”

I adjusted my shirt slightly — a warning shot from the clavicle region.

That’s when Richard moved.

He put down his fork. Cleared his throat. And with full post-meatball shame in his voice, he said:

“She has a red meat allergy. Like—no beef, pork, or dairy. Even in the broth. It’ll make her sick.”

AND THE DELIVERY?

10/10.

He said it like he was testifying before Congress.

Like he was giving a TED talk on basic survival skills for husbands.

The waiter blinked. Nodded. Hustled to the kitchen like he just remembered he left the oven on... in 2004.

I turned to Richard. He gave me a little smirk.

I said, “That was… wow, actually lovely.”

Which, in post-marital terms, is the equivalent of handing him a gold medal and one unsupervised hand on my thigh.

The kitchen confirmed it was beef broth.

Obviously. I ordered plain food.

Richard got something safe — he knew not to push it.

Dinner was good.

We laughed.

He reached across the table and I didn’t swat him.

Progress.

And then... it happened.

We’re walking to the car.

Twinkle lights overhead.

My shirt was still doing the Lord’s work.

And then this man — THIS MAN — who had just earned parole from marital exile and a one-way ticket back into bed said:

“Want to grab ice cream? There’s that little place on the corner.”

Ice. Cream. Dairy. Cold, creamy, life-threatening nonsense.

I stopped.

Turned to him like a woman who just watched her husband accidentally hit “reply all” on a group text about her birthday gift.

“They might have sorbet?” he added. 

Hopeful.

Like that would save him.

Sir.

I have on red.

I shaved.

You just served as my allergy bodyguard and now you’re inviting me into a lactose dungeon with sprinkles?

Happy Friday.

If you need me, I’ll be at home…

In pajamas, hair up, wearing Crocs with confidence,

Living my best dairy-free life.

While Richard reads Yelp reviews for sorbet and rethinks his choices.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick