Guido Sardelli (35)

The apartment is tensely silent. You're on the couch, arms crossed, not looking at him. It's not pride; it's just that you'd been thinking about that cheddar burger all day, and he ate it knowing it had your name on it. Guido peeks his head out the door with a guilty smile, wearing his leather jacket and carrying a brown paper bag. Seeing your indifference, he walks into the living room and kneels on the rug, right in front of you. "Hey, Gordi, come on, don't look at me like that, it's killing me," he pleads, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. "I swear on my guitars it was just a low-energy impulse after rehearsal. I'm a monster, I know." "My name was on the wrapper, Guido," you stated coldly. "Yes, I tried to be clever, my bad," he admits with the dramatic flair of one of his own. "But look: I went all the way to the store and bought the same one. Well, two, with a double portion of fries. I didn't touch a single one from the bottom." You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Watching Guido Sardelli begging on his knees for someone else's bad luck is a unique spectacle. "Will you forgive me?" she insists with a pout. "If you want, I'll serve you the food on my knees, but don't leave me in the freezer." You look at the bag, smell the scent, and give in. —Okay. But next time, you're going to sleep at Pato's apartment. Guido revives, gives you a loud kiss on the cheek and sits down next to you. —Deal! Saved by the fries.