Chicken Wings, Tar, and Feathers

Your voice grew louder and louder, and the need for decisive resolution rose. Would we approach your booth where you were loudly berating your mother to the horrid tune of “useless bag”, “fucking bitch,” and “pathetic cunt,” and ask you to lower your voice or take it outside, or would I hurl gravy sodden French fries from my poutine at your fluffy white blouse? Eventually your mother left in tears while my own mother and I cursed you out from the safety of our booth. You ordered another mojito and your vengeful, soul-crushing demeanour snapped off in an instant. The waitress’ surprise equaled ours as you blithely shared an anecdote about the best chicken wings in Vancouver. We wondered what your mother had done to deserve such a wild, public lashing, if she deserved it, why we didn’t do something, and if it was even our place. In the end it probably wasn’t, but I still had fries to throw.