by Lester L Weil
His wife’s wooden clog slammed into his kneecap under the table. His bad knee. Being a manly construction worker, he didn’t cry out, only closed his eyes and tried to control the pain. It didn’t work. Excusing himself, he tried to make it to the restroom before the knee buckled. He almost made it.
* * *
It had started that morning. His wife insisting they be dinner guests of her old college roommate at a gourmet restaurant. That meant, to get everything done at the job-site, no lunch. When he got home there was barely time to change and then rush off to be at the restaurant on time.
Things started off badly. They didn’t serve beer, just wine.
The restaurant had tile floors. Great for keeping things clean, and he was fine with clean, but the din, as sound bounced between tile and smooth ceiling….. Being a little hard of hearing, courtesy of his job, he sat nodding periodically at interminable conversation he couldn’t hear well enough to follow, and could only guess about by picking up the odd word.
When the food came, it was the last straw.
“What lovely presentation,” the hostess gushed.
It looked like some kid had taken a small child’s portion and made a face with the food.
“Excuse me,” he asked the waiter, “is this the appetizer.”
“No sir, main course.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have the number for Pizza Hut would you.”
That’s when the clog did its damage.
Originally Published in Flash Fiction Magazine 2014
Lester L Weil
Lester L Weil, an ex-professional bassoonist, ex-professor, ex-custom furniture builder, ex-house builder. He is retired in Arizona near the Mexico border.
