It’s a simple truth; they do not love you back. In my case, it was something about the way she crammed my pita bread with falafel balls, hummus and pickled cabbage; her left hand tenderly working the soft bread, as her other, armed at turns with tong and spoon, selected salads and condiments for my lunch. Her name was Shelly, and if there is a more genuine representation of unbridled affection, I am yet to find it. It was as if in some part, she herself was an ingredient, her willingness and enthusiasm a piquant addition, communicated with a knowing, heart-melting smile. For the very… read more.