There are three dinner tables. We sit at the kids table. I’m 23 years-old. My uncle’s new wife younger than me. She sits at the adult’s table.
“Watcha eatin’ ?” asks Dave, 6 years-old and boogery.
“Is it hot?”
He puts his fingers all over my pasta. Boogery, boogery fingers and now boogery pasta. Great.
“It’s not that hot.”
I order a drink from the waiter as he passes by, almost expecting him to refuse me the G&T I need. Make it a Shirley temple instead, I say. Don’t want Dave to see if my drink is cold and accidentally get drunk.