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My m
outh is watering already.
He orders the cholesterol-
ridden nightmare, plus a beer.
Kortni dittoes. I go for the Mile-
High Turkey Stack. Hey, it’s got
the requisite (for me, anyway)
poultry, plus some vegetable matter,
on a flaky croissant. Homage
to the day! The beer arrives.
Disappears. A second round
comes before the waitress can
deliver our meal. Dad slams
that one too. By the time
our Mile-High feast hits the table,
he’s barely coherent enough to
order another one. “Dad,” I warn,
“I know we’re celebrating and
everything, but maybe you’d
better slow down a little.”
Before he can argue, Kortni
jumps to his defense. He’s fine.
And anyway, you’re not his mother.
If I were Kyle, I’d simply blow.
Being Summer, I’ll choose
a more covert route to revenge.
In silence, I pick at my sandwich,
watching Dad and Kortni wolf
theirs down and chase them
with even more beer. I wait until
