My right thumb dove from my pitcher into a man's water glass, soaking his napkin and place mat. He pulled away from his mug of Labatt Blue, lips curling the caramel color back past his picket fence teeth. Like his wife's diamond ring, she was turned away. Her face was illuminated by her phone. Sharon's back with Tom?
Shoot me.
He slid his chair back, legs scraping the floorboards like a car accident. He stood a decent four inches taller than me. Chevrolet was printed across his faded t-shirt, and his boots hit the floor like mallets when he stepped. The pitcher in my grip shook like the Titanic capsizing. This man was the iceberg; **I was the captain panicking behind the wheel.