ugh the ambiance. She flung herself into a nearby seat, oblivious to the discomfort she caused.
We tried to ignore her, focusing on our meal. But in a wild gesture, her fork sent a glob of marinara sauce flying—straight onto my mother’s dress.
She smirked. “Oops.”
No apology. No concern.
Mom, ever gracious, dabbed at the stain, swallowing her disappointment. But I wasn’t my mother.
I leaned in. “Excuse me, you just got food all over my mom.”
“Accidents happen,” she shrugged.
I swirled my wine glass. “Just like accidents happen when drinks spill?”
Before she could retort, the manager arrived. “Lower your voice or leave,” he said, his smile cold.
Justice had been served.
