Work in Progress

In failing to mention her extreme dislike of Thai food the course of the evening was bound for diaster. All though it could have been the growing distance between her and Roger, yes maybe this was it. They had not seen each other in three weeks and she was quickly comeing to the conclusion that he was never going to grow up or see beyond himself. Let alone she thought, become a man who could hold a job, raise a family, live in a house that his parents didn't own or reside in or understand the concept of a monthly rent. The list grew in her head. Roger was 27, working as a valet in downtown LA, and still trying to become an actor. His one and only commercial had recently re-aired giving him a renewed sense of disillusioned hope that he in fact would work hand in hand with Quintin Tarintino someday. The previous evening of binge drinking before, during and after the plane flight did factor into the pounding headache, woozy stomach, inability to converse in sentences expanding more than three to four words, but maybe was this it?
Still searching for a reason why she was so angry, Sally turned to Roger and said, "Stop asking me for a fucking drink! I don't fucking want one, ok?! If I wanted one I would have had one by now damn it, you've asked me thirty times now all ready if I want a fucking drink and I don't fucking want one. Shit!"
Stillness, coated in awkward embarrassment ensued this crazed outburst for roughly thirty seconds in which the three other people sitting next to and across from Sally gathered their thoughts.
"Oh look. It says, 'EAT!'" Bea said turning to her husband Dimitri.
The comment concerned itself with a 1950's looking oversized cafeteria tray with the letters 'E-A-T' sunken into what would be the compartments in which food would be placed in. It was lit in an odd fashion so that the letters cast their own shadows making the observer take a second glance at to it's message. In this, Bea found security in the signs oddity, it did not belong in the Thai inspired restaurant and neither did Sally or Roger for that matter. Sadly this comment did not help span the piercing feeling of anger and tension at the table.
"Sebastian would like something like that." Dimitri said finishing the obvious "we're -not -listening -to what -is- going -on -right-in -front- of- us" conversation.
Neither Sally nor Roger attempted to absolve the table of the presiding outburst.
Not even the arrival of dinner came to the rescue.
Bea knew she didn't connect with Sally but that hadn't stopped conversation, this moment had. Sally's quintessential, picture perfect LA/Orange County look had produced an inward, "ugh" from Bea the moment she met Sally. It was the all over border line orange fake tan, bleached blond hair with a variety of blonde streaks, the short ass denim skirt in which tree trunk like cellulite legs protruded forth, Rainbow flip flops and most assurdly either a belly button piercing or a tattoo gracing the lower region of her back right above her ass (in colloquial terms, a tramp stamp). But those are looks Bea thought to herself. She had lived in Orange County for four years and had come to love and hate the social and cultural monster it was. On occasion she had been proven wrong by these faked baked beach like bum women (girls?), and wanting to be better than those she despised she had a desire to give Sally a chance at being accepted for who she was.