"Prom Night and the Love of My Life," by Bill Butler

It was the night of Senior Prom that I had what psychologists call a
"Significant Emotional Event", and met the woman who would change my
definition of selflessness and compassion and who would be the Love of
My Life.

Now, my prom date was Lorraine Busch, a fine lady who showed a lot of
compassion in accepting my invitation, now that I think about it, but
this story is not about her. In fact, I have a rather murky memory of
the whole evening...except for the story I'm about to relate. Well, I
do remember Lorraine breaking a shoe on the deck at the yacht club...but
not much else.

Five or six couples were invited to a pre-prom dinner party at Nancy
Piver's house. Maybe some of you were there and can recall the guest
list. Nancy was with ol' what's-his-name, Class of '60; nice guy,
always treated me well, but...you know the kind, self-assured, post
acne, voice already changed. Obviously owned his own tuxedo...I hated,
no...feared, him and all his kind.

Dinner actually went fairly well, at least, I don't remember any
conversational offenses, and I managed the impressive array of flatware
by invoking mom's advice: "Work from the outside toward the plate". In
fact, I was feeling pretty good about negotiating this social minefield
when the dessert arrived... And...it was...an enormous, chocolate laden,
bloated, creampuff, oozing with potential for humiliation.

Well, on any other occasion, I would have greeted this sumptuous
delicacy with great relish and laid into it with both hands. But, this
night... All I could think of was my pleated shirtfront, my black (and
rented) trousers, but most of all, the potential for the utter
demolition of my reputation.

I stared at the pastry for what seemed a lifetime, occasionally glancing
around the table to see what utensils the others were using. Well, they
were chatting amiably, and letting the dessert sit there. From the
perspective of 40 years on, it's easy to see that the dozen-or-so people
at that table were all smarter than I--probably still are--and had opted
to sit this one out, or at least hang back until the right moment.

A prudent man would have muttered something about his chocolate
allergy. Not me, all I could see was that I wasn't gonna get any help
with this problem and would have to figure it out for myself. I picked
up my dessert fork--well, the next fork in line--and some sort of knife
and addressed the brute. The outcome was entirely foreseeable, in fact
it was exactly the one I had foreseen and been drawn to by some power
greater than me.

With an attention-grabbing little "skrreeekkk", the utensils slid down
the side of the creampuff and propelled it across the plate onto the
tablecloth, a pristine lace thing, which I am sure came to this country
in the baggage of some 18th Century Piver and had become the prize of
all subsequent generations. The creampuff, which had been none too
stable, even when sitting undisturbed on the plate, arrived with a
sploop and rolled a couple of revolutions, oozing creme fraiche and dark
chocolate onto the heirloom.

Well, the only sound I could hear was the hypertensive rushing noise in
my ears. The conversations, the tinkle of glassware, clink of silver:
all.....stopped, as everyone waited for the next act. I slowly raised
my wretched gaze from the pastry and my eyes locked with Mrs. Piver, who
was sitting far, far away, at the head of the table. She tossed me the
quickest of smiles, really just a twitch of the corners of her mouth,
and deftly flicked her dessert fork, chipping HER CREAMPUFF onto the
cloth and yelping in apparent dismay.

Well..... There have been many women in my life. Alright, not really
that many. But in that exquisite moment I met the one who shaped my
standards for the rest of my life. I knew then that all other women
would be measured against Nancy Piver's mom, and that she would be The
Love of My Life.