[dropcap]L[/dropcap]ast night we ate pizza. Our attention was glued to the angry couple sitting in the booth behind us. Their repartee involved some lavish, but creative usage of the F word, flamboyant finger gestures, and the occasional bout of, “Get your filthy hands off of me or I’m calling the police.”
That made us giggle. When Jamie and I argue, she never threatens the police, that’s tacky. She does, however, recommend that I place a team of paramedics on standby.
Jamie and I listened to every word of their discussion. And then, all of a sudden, it happened, I was out of Parmesan cheese.
“Tell me the truth,” the woman behind us said to her beau. “Are you cheating on me?”
“Lower your voice,” the man said. “People are starting to stare at us.”
Actually, he was wrong, we’d been staring for quite some time.
“I don’t care, are you cheating on me?”
“Well, technically baby, I’m not cheating on you, I’m cheating with you.”
The woman grew silent.
All of us in the restaurant were horrified, and that’s when I decided that I’d had all I could stand. I turned around to face the fork-tongued-two-timer.
I mustered all the courage I could, looked him square in the eyes and said, “Do you mind if I borrow your Parmesan shaker?”