This is the 73rd installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
I don’t respect anybody who can’t tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke. You might as well say you don’t know the difference between grape juice and grape medicine.
The waitress doesn’t seem moved by my analogy; she asks if I want the Coke or not. I tell her not, and she moves on to the next table, probably hoping they’re fine with grape medicine.
Beth sighs into her hands. “Why do you always do this?”
She’s sitting across from me, leaning forward on the table. Every bit of her hair is sticking in a different direction. It’s hot in here; she’s pushed her sweatshirt sleeves up to the elbows but hasn’t taken it off. I’ve never known her to take a sweatshirt off in public.
“What, I’m not even allowed to have an opinion about soda?” I say louder than I intend. I know it’s obnoxious, but that doesn’t stop me.
“The lawyer will be here soon, and then we can just be done, okay?”
She sounds tired because she is. We both are—fighting every night tends to have that effect. She stirs sugar into her tea and then leaves the spoon on the table even though her napkin is right there. When she sees me looking at it, she rolls her eyes and sighs again.
“Don’t start. No one cares about a table at some two-bit diner. Let’s just wait.”
I watch the waitress bring a round of grape medicine to the other table, and I nod.
Miles Away 