Valentine’s Toast

You drop it into the glass before you give it to the woman.

Without her seeing.

She smiles up at you and you smile back. You know what’s about to happen. You’ve seen it a couple times already. And each time it’s hilarious.

You smile.

You take their orders and they hand you menus. The kitchen is efficient and that new guy Gerry said he’d keep a watch on your table. You get a fifteen-minute reprieve. Enough time to sit and watch this all play out.

The woman still hasn’t noticed it.

You stare at her. Placing the thought from your head to hers. She’s starring at him.

“You insensitive asshole!”

She discovers it.

“What?” He mumbles through a spoonful of pasta.

“What? A fucking ring? What the fuck are you thinking?”

“Calm down.”

“No I won’t fucking calm down. That’s fucking low, Grant. Very fucking low.”

The man named Grant tries to comfort her.

“No get the fuck away from me Grant. If that’s supposed to be funny … that’s sick!

You’re fucking sick. I’m leaving. Fuck you, Grant. I never want to see you again.”

She bolts out of your story.

“Hold on. Hold on. I’m not sure what’s even going on.” The man named Grant follows after.

The speed at which the confrontation took place gives you a warm feeling. You still have six minutes left on your break to try and decipher what the fuck just happened.

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