Monday, February 17, 2003
At dinner tonight, Jeff disappeared for about ten minutes. No one knew where he went. We all exchanged sly glances with question marks in our eyes wondering where sick boy was; if he collapsed and died in line ordering his fries. Then he emerged, basket of grilled cheese and french fries in hand, and sat down.
Upon setting down the basket, he wildly flailed his arms, banging his hands against his theighs. I, sitting on the other side of him, was paying mild attention, but was more focused on talking to Summer. I felt his hand brush against my left theigh just above my knee, and swung my head wildly towards him in response. He gave me a quizzical look, as if to say I wasn't allowed to look at him, then figured it out and said, "sorry, I was just wiping the grease from my hands."
Assuming this answer satisfied me, he reached for his basket and picked up the sandwich, bringing it to his lips. At that moment my eyes lit up and I responded with, "Oh, I thought you were just hitting on me."
My humor must have been too much for him, because the bite he just took didn't make it too far and he spent a good thirty seconds searching for air. I almost fell over laughing. Everyone else at our crowded table missed it. Perfectly.
7:48 PM
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