Two waiters approach the table, carrying huge oval platters in each hand, saving me from giving Salvatore my answer. As they place them on the table, I notice both are trying really hard not to meet Salvatore’s gaze. I guess that’s understandable. People tend to avoid eye contact with someone they think is crazy. But what puzzles me is that neither the waiters nor the manager who greeted us when we arrived ever glanced at me. Why would they avoid looking at me? I’m a nice person.
I shake my head, take a sip of my lemonade, and cough. How many lemons did they put in, a whole pound?
“Excuse me?” I call to the nearby waiter.
He stills while arranging the plates on the table, then turns his head to Salvatore. Why would he do that?
Salvatore gives him a nod.
The waiter straightens and fina
