Story A: Part 1

“What are you doing to keep her interested?”

I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more – the question itself or that Pete asked while scraping his fork across his plate to get every drop of syrup.  Syrup alone made me want to hurl.

“That’s irritating.”

“What?”

“That sound you’re making with your fork.  I can feel it in my spine.”

“You’d rather me waste good maple syrup?”

“I’d rather you not piss off everyone in here.”

“They can piss off.”

“You can piss off.”  He started scraping faster.

“You’re focusing on this to redirect the conversation away from my question.”

“I’m focusing on how unnecessary that sound is.”
“You’re avoiding.”

“Are you my shrink?”

“Do you need a shrink?”

“I think I’m leaking sanity from my ears.”

“Because of Vanessa.”

My right shoulder gave an involuntary twitch.  “What?”

“Are you appropriating your frustration of losing Vanessa onto this sound?”

“I’m appropriating this sound onto you.  And I didn’t lose her.”

His raised eyebrow suggested he knew what I didn’t.  “Jonah.”

“Pete.”

He stared at me, waiting for me to crumble.  I don’t know how he did it, but I think he was hypnotizing me.  The vein in his temple was pulsing with the power of mental persuasion.

“What are you doing to keep her interested?”

My conversations with Pete always went like this.  We started coming to this waffle house every Sunday when we were 15.  Neither of us was very religious, so while other families took their communion from a nervous usher holding a bowl of grape juice, we took ours from Denise carrying two plates of waffles smothered in syrup and peanut butter.