With his mouth still full from his last bite and an incriminatory grain of Mexican rice hanging from his lip by a pedicle of cheesy refried bean paste, The Queen’s Own, feeling the warmth of my glare, looks at me and says, “Was this your leftover burrito in the fridge?”
“Yes. Thanks for asking,” thinking he’d pick up on the sarcasm.
Blissfully unaware, he continues to chew. Chomp. Chew. Chew. Chew. Notices there’s something on his lip. Picks it off, looks at it, recognizes it as edible, then adds it to the contents of his mouth. Chew. Chew.
“Oh, and, no thanks. I didn’t want anymore of my burrito anyway.”
Chew. Chew. “Huh? Oh. Good.”