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Who can say exactly how it happened? Perhaps it was simply the combination of the wine flowing, the imported cheeses passing around the table, and at the center of it all, skewered meat cooking on the ends of color-coded forks. In your head, you'd assigned symbolic meanings to the colors of these utensils. You yourself had chosen the red fork, to signify the heat of your attraction. Surely Becky's choice of green was the Fondue Gods' way of urging you on with the color for "go."
So when Becky pulled her fork from the bubbling oil to find it clean, shining, devoid of the chicken nibblet she'd been expecting to enjoy, you confidently leaned over and murmured in her ear, "You know Becky, Swiss custom dictates that when a woman loses her dipper in the fondue, she must kiss the man of her choice at the table."
Blessed were you to be the man of Becky's choice that night. The kiss you shared there, before your friends, was only a prelude to the passion that would overtake the pair of you later, when the others had gone and she lingered behind "to help clean up." It occurred to you as you licked the dipping sauce from her navel that this experience was quite like the fondue itself- sensual, heated, and making a mess of your dining room table.
The last coherent thought that passed through your mind before the two of you gave into exhaustion that night was- "I'm so glad I bought that fondue set on Craigslist."
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