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.
