She orders a salad,
I go for a roast beef sandwich—
the table a peace treaty
between greens and gravy.
We’re joking about the choir,
how altos drift like shopping carts,
how sermons sometimes wander too.
I tease her about converting zombies;
she tells me to quit watching zombie movies.
“Never,” I retort.
The waitress swings by,
coffee pot in hand:
“Everything okay?”
“It’s delicious,” I say,
through a mouthful of beef.
She just nods,
chewing lettuce like it’s holy work.
I lean in:
“She’s missing out;
she can’t eat this. Allergic.”
I taunt her with a bite,
“Mmmm… so good…”
She points a fork with a strawberry on it at me,
takes a slow bite,
and says nothing.
“That’s fair,” I quip.
To the waitress:
“I’m allergic to strawberries.”
The waitress laughs,
shakes her head.
“Walnuts’ll do me in.
If one sneaks onto a salad—
game over.”
“Between us three,” I say,
“we’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
She chuckles,
lets the moment breathe,
then tilts her head:
“So… how do you two know each other?”
The pastor sets down her fork,
smooth as a hymn:
“I’m his pastor.”
And me—timing it just right—
I blurt:
“We’re not fucking.”
Comedy FESTIVAL 