April 15, 2008
On her birthday, Gina and I went out for breakfast to the Venice Cafe, a nice little place on Melrose with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk and waiters in trendy clothes. They don’t, that I can tell, have any italian food, but they do make about twenty different versions of Eggs Benedict, each including one or more frou-frou ingredients like asparagus, brie, or lobster, and each, individually, awesome.
So we’re sitting there munching on bread and drinking our cucumber-essence-infused water (really), and I see a small flying insect land on the far side of the mouth end of Gina’s straw, just as she’s about to take a drink.
“No!”, I shout, slightly too forcefully, and she starts, knocking the bug off.
“There was a bug,” I say, somewhat sheepishly.
We look around, and eventually find the bug, upended, attempting to right itself on her bread plate.
“Aw, there you are, little bug.”
I should explain that Gina has a very Live and Let Live philosophy with regard to insects, but enforces a strict segregation upon them. Many times I have come home to find multiple drinking glasses upended throughout the house, each a small crystal prison for a stray insect. When my cat Penny got worms, they were individually tupperwared.
So on this morning, Gina was offering the bug the water it had so clearly wanted. She put her thumb over the top of the straw and extracted it, tapping it onto her bread plate near the bug.
“Here, little bug. You can have your own water.”
Tap, tap, tap, little drops of water dwarfed the bug on her plate.
And then her finger slipped, and the straw let loose.
A torrent of water poured from the straw, flooding the bug, and sweeping it off her plate faster than she could stop up the straw again. Gina’s face was full of shock.
All I could do was laugh.