If a Milano Cookie Was a Woman...

If a Milano cookie was a woman, she would be the incredibly elegant and sophisticated socialite you dated for three weeks. She had a fancy name to match her fancy demeanor: Eleanore, Melania, or something equally elevated.

Your first date was to a black tie affair. Her dress, a subtle white color, silkily bounced as she moved, and the visual lines were stiff yet touchable like a new bag of Milanos. She wore a cream-colored foundation on her face, textured like the reserved sweetness of a vanilla wafer. And her eyes—oh her eyes—were midnight traced with eyeliner like the straight ribbon of dark chocolate encircling the Milano.

But it was not meant to last. You needed doughy, undercooked Safeway cookies. You were at a place in your life where you ate cookies from the plastic tray, not from the ridged-paper liners. You took her out on a two more dates after the first night, but you couldn't keep up with her grand lifestyle: you tried to add Milanos to the weekly grocery list, but $5 for a small bag of cookies was simply too grand.

After you told her, she looked up into your eyes and said, "It's okay. I understand." She understood about your affair with Keebler simpletons and Nabisco bimbos. Your first kiss was also your last. You tasted her crumbly yet smooth texture, and you knew Abigale and Milanos were destined for a world far better than your Chips-Ahoy monotony.