“He ate my tip!” Tara said that with eyebrow-crinkling rage while we were out grabbing drinks on a laid-back patio. She shook her head sternly and surveyed our table of belchy beer drinkers for emotional support. We offered none. In my defense I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just took a sip of my beer and wiped my foamstache. When I casually glanced back at Tara I saw she was still steaming so I tossed her a thin-lipped nod and a flimsy half-hearted response. “Your tip, huh. Boy, that is really too bad.” I figured we were done but she wasn’t stopping. No, she slapped her palms on the sloshy metal table covered in soggy beer coasters and lemon wedges, leaned her head in real close, and popped her eyes out like a B-grade horror actress who’d just been axed in the back. “You know, the tip of my pumpkin pie. He ate the tip of my pumpkin pie! He knows I love tips. I always talk about tips and he just stole it from me. He ate that perfect, delicious triangle at the front of…
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