“Yeah, yeah. Let me change,” she emphasized my repeated word. “And I’ll be right down.”
I had just finished setting the table when she appeared in the doorway. Her hair was still damp but in a soft braid over her shoulder. Her jeans were skintight and paired with an equally skintight cream sweater that left a large strip of midriff visible.
I cleared my throat and gestured to a chair. I had spent an hour cleaning and setting the table. The silverware and napkins were set with care and the accompanying dishware was precisely aligned.
“Dang, Ford. Looks swanky.” She brushed right past me and went to the table pulling out her chair and slumping into it.
“Wait, wait. You’re already failing.”
She had a glass of wine to her lips and stilled. “Shit. What?”
“First of all, please refrain from swearing, at least while at dinner.”
She rolled her eyes but came back over. “Sorry. I’m working on that. Mother clucker!”
My cheeks burned. “Feel better?”
“Just getting it all out of my system.” She smiled sweetly.
“You know saying similar sounding words as a replacement defeats the point. All words are subjective to the culture, so it doesn't really change the meaning. Best to leave it out altogether, at least in the company of people. When you are alone you can cluck until the chickens come home.”
She rolled her eyes but I swore she had to fight to keep from smiling.
“Secondly, please come over here. Let’s pretend you’ve just arrived as my guest. We’ve already made all our initial greetings. You should wait for the host to dictate where to sit and when. Make sure your phone is off and away.”
“Fine.” She melted out of the chair with the insouciance of a teenager and shuffled in bunny slipper-clad feet back toward me.
“Nice shoes, by the way.”
“Har. Har. Sorry, I didn’t know I’d be dining with the Queen of England.” She stopped in front of me with arms crossed and head tilted expectantly.
“Or you would have worn those cowboy boots?” I wished I hadn’t said it as soon as the barb left my mouth. And as a barb is meant to do, it cut her. Her eyes shuttered and she straightened.
“Aren’t you as sweet as watermelon on a summer day.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
She shrugged. “Truth be told, those are my classy ‘take me serious shoes.’ Most of my shoes are platform heels.” She toyed with the sleeve of her sweater, not meeting my eyes.
“Listen, this isn’t about having fun. But it doesn’t have to be awful. Etiquette has its place.”
“Oh yeah?”
I led her to her chair by gently directing her with a hand on her lower back. “Table etiquette isn’t about being a snob or trying to prove you’re better. It’s about having respect for your host.” I scooted her chair in. “Etiquette highlights character. Or lack thereof.”
I snapped out her napkin before bending to lay it across her lap.
“Thank you,” she said. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth was open in a little “o” shape. I’m not sure what I had done to elicit that reaction.
“You’re welcome.” I cleared my throat.
I went to the chair across from her. She sat straight up, not moving. Her gaze moved over the setup on the table but wouldn’t meet mine. I had made her uncomfortable and now she wasn’t sure what to do.
“Table manners are all about not drawing attention to yourself. The more refined you appear, the more comfortable the other guests will feel.”
“I feel super comfortable,” she said dryly.
“Let’s begin.” I dished out food for myself before passing the dishes to her.
