33- Lincoln

The server gave me a very irritated look when I asked if we might take our food to go and informed me that when you make a reservation, the expectation is that you will stay and eat. It occurred to me as she walked away, her back so straight I was a little worried for her spine, that if we took our rather expensive meal to go, she wouldn’t get a tip for serving us.

I mean, of course, I would tip her. But she didn’t know that. So far, our table had shown all the signs of big trouble, which every restaurant server dreads, I’m sure. The table was flooded, we’d made out like teenagers, and now one person had left the table to hide in the bathroom.

Hannah returned a few minutes later, and I’d done my best to pep talk myself into the ability to vocalize actual words once again.

“Hi,” I said, looking up at her. She stood beside where I sat, her hair waved over one shoulder and her eyes shining with expectation.

“Ready?” she asked. “Oh, we probably need to wait for the food, right?” She grinn