hoped it was something I could easily identify and not something gross.
"Pffft," laughed Solomon. "She's just making sure we get good service."
"She nearly dumped my soup in my lap." I picked up my spoon and prepared to eat as a waft of Solomon's entree caught my nose. It smelled delicious.
"You wish you'd ordered mine, don't you?"
"No," I said, dipping my spoon and raising it to my mouth. Oh yuck-yuck. It was cold. Cold soup. For the love of soup, what was all that about? I barely managed to refrain from pulling a face as I muttered, "So delicious."
"Shall I translate the menu?" Solomon offered.
"Nope. I understand." Immediately, I wished I said yes, but I hated looking like a plebeian who couldn't read a menu. I resolved to ask my mother if there were any language classes at her adult ed school. I was pretty sure if one existed, she'd taken it. She seemed to have tried everything else. Plus, I could win major daughter points by offering to take a class with her. Probably not as many as the time I got roped into her survival skills class, but at least, the knife she bought me for that came in very handy. I still had it.
"No problem. I love it when you do you r brave I'm hating this face."
"I'm not hating it," I said, right before the cold slime slipped down my throat. "I'm immersing myself in culture." Pretty much drowning myself with it, I thought, but chose not to add.
"You want to get a burger on the way home?"
I pouted, "Yes."
"If you let me translate the menu, I can show you the word for burger. Speaking of home, maybe we should talk about..." Solomon never finished his sentence because a terrified scream rang out, which caused all dining conversations to cease. We looked over to the bar where the scream came from. When I saw why, I sat bolt upright and Solomon reached for my arm.
Two gunmen were standing at the bar. Their faces were covered with black ski-masks, that had only the eye holes open a slit. They wore black jeans, with their jackets zipped to their chins, and gloves. One had a pistol pointed at the barman, now frozen with his hands in the air, and our waitress who was also immobilized at the bar. The other gunman held an automatic weapon pointed at the diners. Even without knowing the magazine capacity, I worried that an indiscriminate shooting could result in a lot of casualties. Around us, the other diners were clearly coming to the same conclusion.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Solomon squeezed my arm as I looked at him in panic. He gave a short shake of his head and dipped his gaze down. Don't engage them , he seemed to be telling me, don't draw attention .
"No one move!" yelled the gunman pointing his weapon at the barman. "Hand over the cash and no one gets hurt."
The bartender, his body shaking lightly, dropped his hands, reaching for the cash register. I watched as he grabbed whatever cash was inside, planting the bills on the bar. "From the safe, moron," yelled the gunman. "Take me to the safe."
"We... we don't have a safe," the bar tender replied, his hands back in the air. "That's all there is, I swear."
The pistol man glanced at his comrade and nodded. The ensuing unexpected burst of gunfire had us all ducking for cover. Ceiling debris rained on the table next to us. "Don't mess with me, man," he yelled. "I know about the safe in the back. Let's go."
"I don't have the code."
"That's why you're going to call the manager over here."
"He's not here."
"Then who's that?" asked Pistol, as I decided to call him, waving his pistol at the navy-suited man crouched by a towering, potted plant in the corner. "You! Manager. Get over here, or you'll be cleaning brain tissue off the whiskey for the next week."
"What do we do?" I whispered to Solomon as we slowly sat upright, our bodies still bent towards the table.
"Nothing. We wait."
"For?"
"I texted a nine-one-one already," Solomon whispered, reiterating, "We do nothing. These men are not pros. They're unpredictable."
"How do you know
"Pffft," laughed Solomon. "She's just making sure we get good service."
"She nearly dumped my soup in my lap." I picked up my spoon and prepared to eat as a waft of Solomon's entree caught my nose. It smelled delicious.
"You wish you'd ordered mine, don't you?"
"No," I said, dipping my spoon and raising it to my mouth. Oh yuck-yuck. It was cold. Cold soup. For the love of soup, what was all that about? I barely managed to refrain from pulling a face as I muttered, "So delicious."
"Shall I translate the menu?" Solomon offered.
"Nope. I understand." Immediately, I wished I said yes, but I hated looking like a plebeian who couldn't read a menu. I resolved to ask my mother if there were any language classes at her adult ed school. I was pretty sure if one existed, she'd taken it. She seemed to have tried everything else. Plus, I could win major daughter points by offering to take a class with her. Probably not as many as the time I got roped into her survival skills class, but at least, the knife she bought me for that came in very handy. I still had it.
"No problem. I love it when you do you r brave I'm hating this face."
"I'm not hating it," I said, right before the cold slime slipped down my throat. "I'm immersing myself in culture." Pretty much drowning myself with it, I thought, but chose not to add.
"You want to get a burger on the way home?"
I pouted, "Yes."
"If you let me translate the menu, I can show you the word for burger. Speaking of home, maybe we should talk about..." Solomon never finished his sentence because a terrified scream rang out, which caused all dining conversations to cease. We looked over to the bar where the scream came from. When I saw why, I sat bolt upright and Solomon reached for my arm.
Two gunmen were standing at the bar. Their faces were covered with black ski-masks, that had only the eye holes open a slit. They wore black jeans, with their jackets zipped to their chins, and gloves. One had a pistol pointed at the barman, now frozen with his hands in the air, and our waitress who was also immobilized at the bar. The other gunman held an automatic weapon pointed at the diners. Even without knowing the magazine capacity, I worried that an indiscriminate shooting could result in a lot of casualties. Around us, the other diners were clearly coming to the same conclusion.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Solomon squeezed my arm as I looked at him in panic. He gave a short shake of his head and dipped his gaze down. Don't engage them , he seemed to be telling me, don't draw attention .
"No one move!" yelled the gunman pointing his weapon at the barman. "Hand over the cash and no one gets hurt."
The bartender, his body shaking lightly, dropped his hands, reaching for the cash register. I watched as he grabbed whatever cash was inside, planting the bills on the bar. "From the safe, moron," yelled the gunman. "Take me to the safe."
"We... we don't have a safe," the bar tender replied, his hands back in the air. "That's all there is, I swear."
The pistol man glanced at his comrade and nodded. The ensuing unexpected burst of gunfire had us all ducking for cover. Ceiling debris rained on the table next to us. "Don't mess with me, man," he yelled. "I know about the safe in the back. Let's go."
"I don't have the code."
"That's why you're going to call the manager over here."
"He's not here."
"Then who's that?" asked Pistol, as I decided to call him, waving his pistol at the navy-suited man crouched by a towering, potted plant in the corner. "You! Manager. Get over here, or you'll be cleaning brain tissue off the whiskey for the next week."
"What do we do?" I whispered to Solomon as we slowly sat upright, our bodies still bent towards the table.
"Nothing. We wait."
"For?"
"I texted a nine-one-one already," Solomon whispered, reiterating, "We do nothing. These men are not pros. They're unpredictable."
"How do you know
Similar Books
