This is the 16th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
There’s an art to getting your way, and spitting olive pits across the table isn’t it. I learned that at a young age.
Mama used to say, “You catch more flies with honey.” She wasn’t right about much in her life, but she was right about that.
I look at the kid at the neighboring table, fresh olive poised in her hand. I wait until she looks at me, and then I shake my head, just a little—enough that she knows that I know what she’s thinking but not so much that her mom gets territorial.
Her mom reminds me of my own in all the small ways that a stranger can be familiar: the quirk of her eyebrow, the strain in her voice, the stiffness of her jaw. I don’t stare at her too long, though. Mama always hated that.
The girl blinks at me, twice, and places the olive on her plate.
Miles Away 