Onion Soup w/Crouton

Celia was drunk when we got there. Two guys walked in behind us and she draped her body over them both and asked, “Who wants shots?”

It was 8:30.

Nobody wanted shots. She followed people outside, talked loudly about her grandmother passing, and turned up the music so that nobody could hear.

“Celia! Please don’t touch the radio!” a waitress called after her, apologizing silently and passing to turn it down.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Celia was asking us about the radio now. She had to greet us personally from the bar. “You look good together,”she slurred through her vodka diet, “Was your sandwich OK? Really? Really was it OK though?” She wouldn’t believe me that the pastrami was amazing. Her eyes drooped at the prospect of perfect pastrami, “But was it what you wanted?”

I felt badly for not wearing make up right then. Like it was rude to have a husband this late at night. She asked us pointless questions and I didn’t tell her it was our anniversary.

My daughter’s second grade boyfriend ran all recess long so that my daughter could never break up with him. Different things work.

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