That Moment When Pho Shoots Out of Your Nose

My mouth overflowed with pho noodles, broth threatening to leak out of the left corner of my mouth.

"Is everything okay?"

The waiter had waited until I’d loaded up my mouth clumsily with my chopsticks before approaching, I was sure of it.

Across the small, wobbly table, my daughter had taken a much more manageable bite.

But he wasn’t asking her; he was asking me. And all I could manage, because I didn’t dare open my mouth, lest it all dribble out, was something that sounded like, Harrumph.

Catching my teenager's gaze, I began to feel laughter bubbling up, and it was all I could do not to spit the entire spicy mouthful out onto the table – or worse, onto HER. She seemed to know exactly what was transpiring, and as the waiter turned on his heel and left us, the giggling erupted and become uncontrollable.

I could not swallow.
I could not spit.
I was stuck in the middle, and the noodles were beginning to crawl down my throat.

We could not speak about what was happening, just ride the wave as it happened. I felt a hot, wet tear forming at the outside corner of my right eye, then burst the dam of the lower lid and slide down my cheek. It was all I could do not to slap the table as I cackled.

The laughter would not leave my mouth, my eyes, my sides. I began to feel the heat of the pho broth with a suddenness that made my nose run. This on top of the uncontrollable laughter made me worry that I now, quite possibly, had snot blowing from my nostrils.

Possibly even a double bubble.

I was aware of the four diners at the table next to us, and wondered whether they were appalled or oblivious to what was going on with us. I was relieved, for once, that my back was facing the rest of the restaurant. At least nobody else could see my complete deterioration of dignity as this full-body laughter took hold.

Just when we thought it was safe to breathe again, it got worse.

We imagined the waiter telling us to leave, asking us never to return, taking photos of us to hang behind the front counter so that nobody would seat us if we should appear there again. We even threw in a juicy tidbit of scolding from imagined from the waiter.

"You are dead to me," he’d say with a sneer as he moved to call security.

Poor guy... this just became our favorite restaurant.

GIFs courtesy of Giphy.com

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Enjoy more stories by Susan Anderson here:
The Portland Short Story Series: Enjoy Your Last Thursday
https://steemit.com/fiction/@steemitpatina/the-portland-short-story-series-enjoy-your-last-thursday

The Recipe: A Short and Not Very Sweet Story
https://steemit.com/fiction/@steemitpatina/the-recipe-a-short-and-not-very-sweet-story

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