I march toward the bar where Wyatt is mixing drinks.
“We need to talk about the menus.”
He does not look up.
“What about them?”
“They are riddled with errors. Grammatical errors. Spelling errors. The apostrophe usage alone is a crime against the English language.”
He does look up this time, and there is that expression again, like he is questioning every life choice that led to this moment.
“The menus have been the same for at least fifteen years.”
“Well, then they have been wrong for fifteen years.”
“Nobody’s complained.”
“I’m complaining.”
“You’re not a customer.”
“I’m the owner.”
The words come out of my mouth way louder than I intended, and I now realize that lots of people at the bar are watching me with interest.
Wyatt’s jaw tenses.
“Can we discuss this later?” His voice is low and controlled. “When we’re not in the middle of a night rush?”
“Fine.” I clutch the menu to my chest. “But just know this isn’t over.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t.”
I turn to deliver my drink order, which I had nearly forgotten about because of my grammatical outrage, and nearly collide with Dolly, who has appeared at my side like a rhinestone ghost.
“Sugar, what is going on?”
“The menus are wrong. The grammar is atrocious.”
Dolly looks at me, then at the menu, then back at me.
“Honey, nobody here cares about grammar.”
“I care about grammar,” I say, putting my hand on my chest.
“I can see that.” She gently takes the menu from my grip. “Why don’t you go deliver those drinks to Mr. Patterson’s table, and then we can talk about menus tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow?—”
Her voice is still sweet, but there is steel underneath it.
“Right now, we have customers to serve.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. It’s like my mother’s ghost has overtaken my body, forcing me to yell about apostrophes and grammar.
I take a breath, nod, and head back to the bar to pick up the beers I ordered approximately seventeen crises ago.
The next hour is even worse.
