Kelvin

“What are you doing?” I am annoyed.

“What? What do you mean ‘what am I doing’? What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re being an inconsiderate patron of this dining establishment and a poor dinner guest by photographing your food so you can add some bullshit sepia filter to it because you are what’s wrong with America. That’s what you’re doing. Lemme guess;  you’re going to post it to all the social networking sites, followed by a slew of ridiculous hashtags. Maybe #YOLO. Tell me, would you like to really find out what it’s like to ‘only live once,’ or are you going to put your fucking phone down and eat so I can quit showing you proper manners you don’t deserve by waiting for you to quit fucking around with your goddamn food?” I said in the most calm way possible, despite being able to feel the vein in my forehead pounding as my blood pressure rises.

“Jesus Christ. Are you having your period? What the fuck is your problem? I just wanted to show my friends how good the pork belly tacos were here. Like you’ve never done it…” she pouts. I hate when she pouts. I want to slap her face, and sit on my hands to keep me from doing so.

“I don’t post pictures of my food. And don’t fucking tag me here, either. I don’t want people knowing where I am.” I pick up my fork and poke at my lukewarm food. My forehead vein pounds again.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I don’t want people knowing I willingly associate with you any more than I have to,” she says, but she’s lying. She slyly picks her phone up, makes a flourish of quick thumb movements and swipes, then puts the phone in her purse.

I stare at her from across the table, dumbfounded. She looks up at me and shoots me The Look. She’s playing with her food, using her fork to push it around the plate.

“What? What’s wrong? Don’t just play with it, eat it.” I scold.

“It’s…cold…” she says. She’s pouting again.

I grab her phone from across the table and drop it in her glass of iced tea. “Facebook this, you stupid cunt!” I yell. The entire restaurant stops like a record scratch and turns to stare at us.

YOLO.

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