Stephanie Rinaldi

Open Source, Cally

“Pass the ketchup,” he says, pointing at the glass bottle next to the salt. She passes the ketchup. “Now, I know what you’re thinking.” He tips the bottle upside down and slams his palm against the bottom. Smack smack. “I’m not who you were expecting.” Smack smack. “Don’t worry. No one’s ever expecting me.” With one last smack, ketchup burbles out of the bottle onto the mountain of fries on his plate. “It’s the fancy clothes, isn’t it? People always expect me to look like a low life.”