Barbecue Sauce

I was with some friends Tuesday night for a writer's retreat. Of course, this place is also a restaurant/bar, so we ordered food.

As the waitress came around with the sandwiches, I felt something brush by my side.

The waitress panicked.

"Oh my God," she said to me, "I just spilled barbecue sauce on you."

I looked down. There was a spilled cup of barbecue sauce on the floor next to me. I look at my pants. They look dry.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," she said.

As best as I can tell, the brushing was the bottom of the cup of barbecue sauce. Lucky for me. Better than the other end. My cohorts, Erin and Linsey and Trueblood, are laughing.

"Just let me make sure you didn't get any on you," the waitress said. I get up. I don't see any sauce on me.

"Just turn around real quick," the waitress said. I turn around. There is apparently no sauce on my backside.

The retreat continued. I dodged a huge bullet. The waitress came by every few minutes and makes sure we're OK. Service with a smile.