Oh, how I hate being called ‘boy’

The waiter escorted him and his date past my table. I smiled, waved and said hello. He walked past me like I wasn’t even there.

I headed to the restroom before departing. I was washing my hands when his voice snarled from behind me.

“Pro tip, boy. Waving at tricks in restaurants is totally classless. Now you’ve got my husband wondering who the fuck you are. Way to fuck up my date night.”

I turned to him, drying my hands with a towel.

Oh, how I hate being called ‘boy’ in that kind of dismissive, mean tone.

“I hope you at least had the decency to change the sheets on the bed we fucked in before he got home,” I responded. “That a wave from a man in a restaurant can ‘ruin date night’ is all about you. I feel sorry for your husband.”

He stood there, silent and stunned, then growled, “fuck you,”

“Probably not, you’ve lost that privilege.” I said, leaving him alone the restroom.