My mom fusses and my dad grumble’s at her in response. They have a strange connection. Both live harmoniously in their dysfunction. They drive each other bat shit crazy, but they haven’t killed one another, so it must be love. “Phillip,” my mom chastises the second my dad gets his beer from the waiter, instantly chugging the frothy amber liquid down. My dad squints at her over his glass, but doesn’t have much to say, either because his mouth is full, or he’s not interested in provoking her. Mom rolls her eyes into the back of her head at his non-response. I think my dad mutters something snappy under his breath when he puts the empty glass down, but I don’t catch it, too busy guzzling my own glass of wine. This is usually how their night goes; little digs, quiet snaps, and eye rolling. “What can I get you folks this evening?” the waiter asks. Of course my mom orders for my dad when he tries to order more beer. I’m not sure if the man even knows how to order for himself anymore, other than from the drinks portion of the menu.
