Please welcome Guest Blogger Formalda Hyde.

She will do a series of posts on her stories of heartbreak and heart attacks. She has that affect on men.

In her own words…

The last man who bought me dinner dropped dead at the table. Before I had a chance to finish my Chardonnay, the paramedics arrived, strapped him onto the gurney, and wheeled him away. I think his name was Frank. He was that way, you know. Frank.

Just asked me stuff right out, like “You into foreplay?” Only he meant four to play. And that was just during the appetizer.

We both ordered salads. I had the Caesar dressing. He had the Russian. Told me a joke I heard when I was five … something about not opening the refrigerator because there was a Russian dressing. It wasn’t funny then.

I’m pretty sure the entree killed him. He ordered a t-bone steak rare. While he ripped the meat from the bone with his teeth, the blood ran down his chin, and dripped onto the white tablecloth. Just before his cheek twitched, his eyes bulged, and he did a header into his baked potato.

I waited a second or two for him to lift his head and do a white face gag in sour cream and chive. That was his shtick. Bad jokes and crass retorts. A real class act. I probably would have killed him if he hadn’t died first. Who knows? Maybe I did.