Mike was making his way back to our table, casually observing what everyone else was having for dinner. I could tell by the way he licked his lips that if it were up to him, he would've ordered one of everything he saw. What he wasn't looking at, however, was where he was going.
From the corner of my eye, I saw our waitress coming from the side kitchen door, my steaming hot plate of freshly prepared spaghetti in hand, on course with Mike as he was walking down the aisle perpendicular to her. In an instant they collided in a loud crashing of dishes, an eruption of noodles and sauce, and a scalding scream of pain.
I sat there motionless, watching it all unfold in super slow motion, as if I were watching Monday Night Football.
Too bad there's not an instant replay for this, I thought, and grabbed my napkin to stifle a giggle.
When the echoes from Mike's scream and the clattering of dishes died down, the waitress hurriedly stood up and immediately began apologizing in Italian-at least, I think she was apologizing. She then stomped back into the kitchen, no doubt to place a third order for my meal. I couldn't blame her; I would've stomped off, too.
Mike, meanwhile, lay in a puddle of marinara, noodles slowly slithering off his head. A single meatball rolled off his chest as he sat up. He picked a sauce-stained noodle out of his hair, looked at it, shrugged his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?" and then slurped it down, licking his fingers afterwards.
"Not bad," I faintly heard him say. "I'm definitely getting the spaghetti next time."
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