The sign promised friendly service. It was, certainly, prompt.
“I’ll have the Fried Chicken, please.”
“Are you sure?”
“You don’t want a salad?”
Sarah tried to laugh. “No.”
“It’s just… No offense, dear, but you could lose a few pounds.”
Sarah’s eyes bugged out. “Can I speak to your manager?”
“I suppose you’ll have mashed potatoes and a milkshake too?”
“You know what, I’m leaving.” Sarah picked up her bag and stood. The gall!
“Ungrateful,” she heard the waitress say. “I was only trying to be helpful.”
Nobody spoke to her like that.
Nobody except, Sarah realized, her mother.
One of the divers has taken to informing me of how young I look on a semi-regular basis. Today he told me that my brother looks much, much older than I do. Which, of course, I know (it's the beard. If I had a beard, I would look older), and which, of course, has become if anything a joke between Kevin and me. But when it comes to the kid who told me his mom mistook me for an adolescent boy (dang it, not again!) I still end up feeling sort of odd. Thanks, John.
I think he does it because he's tiny -- much smaller than the other boys in his age group -- and he's trying to emphasize a similarity between himself and me (we are both small and look younger than we are). But that might be the Polyanna in me speaking. Maybe he just likes annoying me.