Regina
The Palms was a quaint, family-owned Italian restaurant near downtown, with extremely limited parking. Seeing that all the spaces out front and in the small lot were full, I ended up parking two blocks away and walking back up the hill to the restaurant. The high heel pumps were making my feet ache as I stumbled over the cracked sidewalk which was poorly illuminated under the streetlights.
Once in the door I was hit with a barrage of strong Italian smells: tomato sauce, garlic, oregano and fresh baked bread. I paused on the threshold to see if my stomach was going to protest, but it seemed that Baby liked Italian food.
“The gentleman is waiting for you,” the young hostess said, “Follow me, please.” She led me through the crowded dining room to a table in the back, near an
