Someone leaves a bottle of pop in the middle of the table. Pop foam goes all across the table, all 360 degrees; the asshole had shaken the bottle before placing it there. We all get up off our bench seats in unison, pushing each other out of the way, our rubber soles already feeling sticky.
All I can think about is the amount of effort it would be on the cafeteria staff to clean it up. Dicks.
I alone step forward, everyone else laughing and staring in a wide circle around the table, and I stick my tongue down the bottle’s neck to stop the flow. Not that it really helps. I think I bring it outside the cafeteria? Cola flows down my arm.
It perplexed me for years why my classmates, this cloud of 14 year old pheromones, reacted the way they did. By the time I understood, I still wasn’t amused. Or maybe was no longer amused; I can’t tell. I never had much of a sense of humour.
doloresappreciationsociety 