Categories: uncategorized
Date: 04 December 2004 19:30:48
He insisted on eating his burrito as he drove. Not necessarily a bad deal -- a well-wrapped burrito is, seemingly, the perfect eat-while-driving food.
The one he'd pulled out of the fast-food sack was apparently made by a new employee, however. It was a mess. Not tidiliy tucked up at all. Wimpily oozing guacamole and sour cream and refried beans all over the wrapper. Not good for driving. Unless you want your front decorated with sauces.
"Maybe we'd better pull over and get these eaten, then go on. Unless we want to be covered in sour cream," I suggested, as I dazzled him with my ability to choose and unwrap a suitable burrito. Or would have dazzled him if he'd been watching me instead of the road whizzing by.
"No!" he rumbled. "You think we have all sorts of time."
I handed him a burrito that was 1) expertly assembled -- an old hand in the kitchen made that one -- and 2) also neatly based in the paper wrapper in came in. Even if it sprang a leak later he'd not splatter his shirt.
"That's why you're always late." He kept his eyes on the highway, merging into the 70 MPH traffic as he accepted the food and began to wolf it. "That's why you can't hold a job."
I let that pass, not mentioning any of the times I'd run out of time dealing with his needs on my time.
"Well, at least I always arrive unsmeared with sour cream."
He drove. He chewed, swallowed, and began obviously waiting for his next burrito.
I was eating mine. Neatly, for such a messy food item.
"You'll have to wait. I'm eating," I reported, as if he didn't know what I was doing less than a foot away. Heh. Maybe it didn't occur to him. I can't count on him being aware of things like that. He does have a one-track mind.
He began to root around in the bag again, still whipping down U.S. 90 at 70 MPH. I downed the last of my burrito, took his mess-in-a-paper-wrapper from him, and returned it to his hand, miraculously neat.
I thought about it -- about making better use of my time, jamming sloppy concoctions into my mouth as I drove to a job. I grinned, then barked a sharp laugh.
"The kinds of people who would want to hire me smeared with sour cream, I don't think you want me to work for."
I guffawed. Young teen son in the back seat groaned, as he always does when anything remotely connected to sex or sensuality is mentioned between his (*shudder*) parents.
The spouse tried mightily to keep his grim mask on, his "I am your husband and it's my duty to guide/improve you" face. He couldn't stand stern in the grip of imagining me dressed in condiments, though.
His dark, unshaven face bnroke into a wide, white grin.