Ketchup fight

At luncheon, I carry my tray of salad, chicken fingers, ice water and root beer to the condiments table. Pulling a toggle squirts ketchup, mustard or mayo into mini cups. As I dispensed both yellow and red sauce, a small girl ran up beside me. Ringlet hair pulled back, clad in a sweater jumper, matching tights and Mary Janes, she stretched out her short arms between the tall glasses of water and root beer. May I have some? pointing to the ketchup. Myself a veteran of many spilled glasses, I quickly pulled my tray back and away. . . let me make this easy for you. As I turned, the cashier grinned at me. He and I both knew, had there been a tussle, no one would have sympathized with me. The kid had all the charm, and now she had her condiments.