The Real Thing

I have simple pleasures. I do not feast upon bon-bons and caviar all day. On the contrary. My usual lunch may be a handful of M&M’s and the crusts of PB&J’s. But I do have one little culinary delight that I afford myself: one cold 12-ounce can of Coca-Cola a day.

I know it doesn’t sound like much of a treat, but there is something about that liquid refreshment at precisely the right time of a sluggish afternoon that picks me right up.

But lately, someone has been attempting to foil my carbonated happiness.

After my initial sips, I spy a little pair of hands come up from under the table to check the temperature and volume of the can. Because he can’t see me, he thinks I do not notice the inspection. Matty will then forgo the can if he deems it too cold or too full--and will wait patiently until I have drunk precisely the exact amount to achieve his optimal level. With a pleading grin, he will bring me a fresh can from the refrigerator, while taking the initial one explaining, “I like your soda, Mom.”

I can't help but have a Coke and a smile.