You Assume Too Much

“Good Evening,” the maitre d’ calls out to me, “table for two?” I shake my head and display a lone, single finger. He nods and ushers me to follow him. I am seated and he begins his deliberate spiel of specials upon savored selections that go so, “…indubitably well with our fine assortment of wines.” An inquiry of my choice meal is made and I resort to ordering the filet mignon, medium rare, with mashed potatoes and a side of crab cakes. “To drink sir?” his furtive feeding hole forms into comprehensible waves of putrid air. Diet-Coke soon wets my lips. While my meal is being assembled, I dissemble into the back of the booth, my eyes in constant peripheral scan. Countable diners make up the festive few which perpetuate the evening. Their talk of grandmas gone gangrene to children chasing cats empties the room of all but poor tasting dialogue. I’m left wondering over and over if, “…laughter or Florence’s Chicken Penicillin” really is the best medicine? Moments later, my entrée makes way to my booth with brief specks of a fly’s loving touch to Manny’s mucus discharges, inferably visible. One bit assures my assumption. Upon the second and third transfers of meal to mouth, I’ve attracted a distant, indirect stare with the proprietor of the establishment. She sips an attractive martini while eating a suggestive pair of cherries. Unfortunately for her, she assumes too much, batting an eyelash at me; I’m her father.

The End

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