Bubbles

I could never resist bubbles...never

I couldn't help it: bubbles were just so fascinating! I sat there in George's restaurant blowing back down into my straw, watching the bubbles in the milk stack up one on the other, totally different than how they acted in water.

"Stop blowing bubbles in your milk!" Mom admonished. Dad scowled and looked away. I didn't mind; that's just the way Dad was when Mom was around. When she wasn't around, he was fun, even a little goofy. I guess I understood on some level, even at that early age, that Dad didn't really like Mom all that much.

But my parents' marital relations were the last thing on my mind at the time; I had bubbles! They rumbled deep in my milk, a burbling sound that was infinitely entertaining, then appeared and swirled in semi-opaque mystery.

George came out from the kitchen in his ubiquitous white apron to talk to us. He was a fixture in my childhood since we ate there so often. (One of the things Dad didn't like about Mom was that she was a lousy cook, God love her.) A big, gregarious Greek fellow, he always had a smile for Dad and a kind word for the rest of the family. I looked up at him, filmy white bubbles starting to overflow my glass. He looked at me and started to laugh.

"Every kid likes to play with bubbles!" he said in his exotic accent. "Nothing wrong with that," he said conciliatorily to Mom's frowning countenance.

He winked at me, and I giggled, the bubbles overflowing the glass and staying intact all the way to the tabletop.

Every kid needs a guy like George in his life, just as much as he needs permission to blow bubbles every chance he gets.

NOTES: ▼

Word Count: 296
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words milk, wrong, and straw