Mom shook the ketchup-bottle too hard. Their first chance to build bridges over worlds of disagreement, and she was blowing it. Even as it happened she knew, wished she could stay her hand. But gooey red sprayed Amy’s smart white blouse like blood-splatters. Her face turned pale.
The waiter, waving flags of surrender, rushed in too late to help. Dark streaks had splattered Amy’s right sock, so thin and brittle on the empty trouser-leg. Was that how the wound had first appeared in its noisome battle-torn blossom?
“You never wanted me to go.”
“My love, I’m just glad you’re home.”