sitting in that dodgy italian restaurant waiting for my shitty fettucini which i know will go all over my face and make her laugh. the spotted plastic tablecloth has made scratch marks up and down my leg, matching the shape ive now got from sitting cross legged for the last 2 hours. i know i know i know i should tell her i love her dresses and her knees but i know i can't because then ill never stop. she's blurring and i know i should put my glasses on and look at her but the haze of vision i can barely see her through is helping me to not break down and sob all over this shitty tablecloth. the fettucini comes and i cant even see the pieces of ham because im laughing at that joke she told me at her dads funeral last week that she just repeated to me. 10 mins. fettucini's gone and im left with a sad outline of a bowl of shitty pasta i ate with the best company i think ill ever have.