We’re too embarrassed to point out the blood spot that’s soaking into the restaurant’s crisp white linen tablecloth. Our server politely ignores it when he brings our food. We strategically re-arrange our plates to hide it from the other diners.
You prattle on blah-blah-blah: the kid’s school, the air conditioner, our taxes. I respond yada-yada-yada: work, vacation, our 401K.
But the blood spot keeps growing, slowly spreading across the table until it drips over the edges and onto my trousers, onto the tips of your shoes.
When we get home, we scrounge through the medicine cabinet looking for another band-aid.
You prattle on blah-blah-blah: the kid’s school, the air conditioner, our taxes. I respond yada-yada-yada: work, vacation, our 401K.
But the blood spot keeps growing, slowly spreading across the table until it drips over the edges and onto my trousers, onto the tips of your shoes.
When we get home, we scrounge through the medicine cabinet looking for another band-aid.
