Let It Go, Or Don't

Or hang on to it and let it fester

The relationship started off so nicely.   There were jokes and winks and clever asides.  But somewhere along the way, I can't pinpoint exactly when, it's too painful, the quips stopped, the gestures turned hostile.  The SJG didn't see it coming.  I thought things were going well, although in hindsight, there may have been a few red flags I chose to ignore.  I asked for bread.   He brought attitude.  I asked for grilled shrimp.  He brought ungrilled.   I intervened on my own behalf.  I flipped through the self-help book in my brain.   "Let it go.  Just.  Let. It. Go."  So fine, I let it go.  I didn't say, "What's with the snark?" I kept my grievances to myself.  Well, not really.  Have you met me?  I ranted to my friend, the belated b'day gal.  "What the eff's his problem?"  She shrugged.  She's far too healthy to get dragged into my issues.  "He seems nice enough.  Try some of this humus."  But soon, even the belated b'day gal had to concede that something was up.  When he brought her "surprise" mini-sundae, there was no happy b'day song to go with, no fanfare.  He slammed the "surprise" on the table, and left in a huff.  "What the eff's his problem?" she asked.  I love when the belated b'day gal swears.  It happens about once a decade.  She's not like the SJG.  She's a happy, centered shiksa who looks on the bright side.  "He's an angry waiter," I explained, and proceeded to flag him down.  "Yes?" he asked.  "Spoons," I said.  What had started as friendly banter had devolved into chilly, one-word exchanges.  And then, a sudden turnaround.  He must've sensed my disappointment.  How could he not?  I was projecting it across the restaurant.  Plus, he was worried about his tip, or lack thereof.  Without warning, he went all nicey-nice.  "Can I get you ladies something else?"  I remained aloof.  The damage was done.  "The check."  Will I see him again?  I hope not.  But then again, you never know.  The bread was so good, so fresh, so warm, I may have to go there again.  When it comes to matters of the stomach, I have little self-control.