Half Way

My forkful of cake paused, as of its own volition, half way between the plate and my open mouth.

I raised one eyebrow and glared with both eyes at my youngest child.

Gripping the handle of the hovering fork tightly, I turned it so that it was pointing across the table.

"Mom. Your mouth is still open."

With a very unladylike grunt, I exhaled sharply and closed it. My teeth clicked together like a Geiger counter detecting a sudden burst of unhealthy energy. The bustling coffee shop continued bustling around us, unaware of the danger that had suddenly risen up in its midst. At the counter, a girl with too big hair and too small clothes was ordering a piece of the same cake that I was in the middle of eating. Don't bother, I thought. It's really not that good, and certainly not worth $5.75 for a small slice.

"Mom. You're still pointing your fork at me."

Carefully, I brought my fork to my once again open mouth and ate the over-baked chunk of underwhelming sponge. Yup. Mediocre at best. I could make better cake in my sleep after a couple of valium and half a bottle of cheap wine. I wasn't going to waste it, though. I speared another chunk and raised my fork half way to my now closed mouth.

Gripping the handle of the hovering fork tightly, I turned it so that it was pointing across the table.

The legs of my offspring's chair screeched gently on the crumby tiled floor as he squirmed in his seat. He was beginning to sense something was wrong. Not particularly swift on the uptake - just like his dad. I put a few extra daggers into my glare.

"I don't believe you", I said.

His shoulders slumped forward.

"Sorry mom."