Chewing It Over

"I'm trying to get my daughter to stop chewing with her mouth open," said my new colleague. "I hate it when people do that. It's disgusting."

Sitting across the table from her at the coffee shop, I panicked. Had I kept my mouth closed while I was working on the cream cheese Danish I'd just finished? Probably not; I'd worked myself into a lather while telling her a story about large animal vets, using half the pastry as a stand in for a goat. Chewing with my mouth open might be the least of my problems.

Z. was was telling me now about the department she runs. I was thinking about the way I ate.

"Which is why I'm glad we're having this conversation," she concluded.

I forced myself back into the present and smiled weakly at her, hoping she'd give me a clue what she was talking about. She looked back quizzically.

"Right," I finally said.

"You understand my concern?" she asked.

"Sure," I said.

"So how do you think we should approach the situation?" she asked.

"Quietly and well-camouflaged," I said.

"What?"

"Sorry. That was a joke," I said.

"Oh," she said. "Like the story about the goat."

"Right," I said.

"So what do you think we should do about the situation?" she repeated.

"I think it makes sense to get together regularly and discuss it," I said in the hope of buying enough time to figure out what the situation was. "Keep an eye on things, see how they're going."

"Good," she said. "I was hoping you'd say that. Every month or so?"

I could easily die in the next month. "Sure," I said. "Do you want to meet here again?"

"No, back in the office is fine," she said.

"I'll bring doughnuts," I said.

"No, please, just coffee is fine," she said.

I knew it, I thought.