My husband and I have fallen into a fairly regular weekend breakfast routine. On Saturday morning (or early afternoon, as the case may be), we go to our favorite breakfast restaurant. On Sunday, we go to a bagel place just down the street.
It seems we’re not the only regulars at the bagel shop. Twice now, we’ve ended up seated near a guy who is clearly in it for the long haul. He has a big stack of newspapers on his table and a refillable thermal coffee mug. Any signs of his own breakfast are already gone when we arrive.
His contribution to the restaurant’s ambiance is to noisily hork up phlegm while we’re trying to eat. He has an astounding repertoire of hideous snot-clearing sounds that are guaranteed to make anyone’s egg sandwich 86.8% less appetizing.
Of course, my husband can read my mind. He knows I’m *this* close to leaping to my feet, going to the guy’s table, and screaming, "Good God, man! Hack up your goobers at home and let us all eat in peace!"
I don’t do that. My husband still eyes me warily until I’ve finished eating.
Until the weather gets nice and we can eat on the patio, I think we may be forced to take our bagel sandwiches to go. I don’t think I can handle another meal in the vicinity of the mucous snorker.
Or maybe it’s time I started cooking breakfast at home again.
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