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“I’m sorry for not asking before,” Amber says. “But how was your day?”
“Fine.” She doesn’t need to hear the intricate details. And I don’t want to repeat them. Might become agitated if I do.
People singHappy Birthday, and a server carries a chocolate cake with one flaming candle in the center to a large table. The birthday girl is eighty, if not a day. The whole family appears to be with her. Children and grandchildren. Possibly grandchildren.
Now I think of my mother and her birthday that’s coming up. I need to work on being a better son.
The waiter brings our appetizers, and we begin. It’s excellent, as expected. Conversation is light when he brings the main course. By the time we reach the end of the meal, I’ve finished telling her about my day. How did she get it out of me? Maybe she’s the one who needs to close the New Orleans deal for us. It’s a thought.
The waiter returns and asks if we care for dessert. I try to talk Amber into ordering something, but she refuses. “Way too full.”
I decline as well because I don’t want to be a pig.
“Very well.” The waiter gathers the empty plates. “I’ll get the check.”
He walks away, and I say to Amber, “Have you thought about coming to my mother’s birthday party with me?”
She sips her water. “It’s tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“I do. Be much more enjoyable with you there.” I’m groveling again. I don’t understand it. “So, what do you think?”
She taps her glass with a fingernail. “What time?”
Yes!
