Everybody has a limit. I like to think of it as a cup of tolerating water. Every time something aggravates us, the cup fills ever more. Some people have pitchers, others have shot glasses, but we all have somebody who seems intent on tipping that vessel and letting all the hatred pour out.

For me, that was Jensen. He has this awful habit of noting down orders in a form of short hand that I can’t read. He can’t even tell me what the orders were. Somebody ordering a Coke got a Carbonara. It makes me want to kill him.

He always does a shoddy job of cleaning the tables. Smudges, smears and stickies warrant complaints from the customers. It’s so frustrating.

And now, he’s cleaning the bar while I chop onions. The oaf knocks a bowl of nuts. The bowl topples about, disgorging one little nut from the top of the pile. It rolls out of the bowl, over the counter, and drops. Drops straight down into my cup of tolerance. The waters splash over the edge. I grip my knife.

It’s always the little things in the end.