Monday, August 5, 2013


Almost every Sunday after mass, my family would go to Wasatch Brew Pub, on Main Street, for dinner. It was the best. We went in one day, and the busboy that showed us to our seats was really cute. He was re-filling water glasses, so I took mine and I emptied the contents into my family members’ water glasses. I cleverly positioned the glass so that the busboy would have to lean across me to fill it up.

But then the waiter came to the table, and he started to fill up my water glass while telling us the dinner specials. My family members chuckled, and the confused waiter asked what he had done.

“She wanted the busboy to do it!” my sister said, referring to the water glass in his hand.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, putting the glass back down. “I’ll go get him!”

“NO!” I said, but he had already shuffled back to the kitchens. I was so scared and horrified.

And then the busboy came out with a pitcher of water and a smug look on his face. He came and stood right in front of me, looking down at where I sat, palpitating in fear.

“Would anyone like some water?”

I never ate there again.