I once sat opposite a man who ordered his steak well done. That was probably the first red flag, though I’ve been told to be less of a snob. If you like chewy, tasteless beef, you do you, babe. He then looked down at his plate for a beat too long, leaned forward and dribbled on the steak before cutting into it. A long, stringy glob of drool – the kind infants do accidentally. Except this was not an accident.
I was so horrified I didn’t say anything. Nor did he, which made it worse. We sat there in silence, him eating, me trying not to gag. I didn’t touch much of my own food, partly out of shock and partly because I couldn’t unsee it. Years later, he’s now coming to my wedding – to a man who understands that saliva is not a condiment, I might add. Growth is possible.
