In April of 1994, my partner and I took a weekend jaunt to Toronto. On Saturday night we went to the Old Spaghetti Factory for dinner, and the place was packed. Every piece of furniture, antique or otherwise, in their lobby was occupied, and even room to stand wasn't plentiful. I noticed a lot of people had drinks, which seemed to me a good way to pass the time, so I made my way to the bar to fetch us each a cocktail.
After a time we found seats, and settled down to wait. My partner nudged me with an elbow and discreetly indicated a man and woman sitting directly opposite. He was sitting in the seat of a large hall tree, and she was sitting on its wide arm. I had already noticed them. I think everybody had already noticed them. They were furious with each other. They both sat still, not talking, not looking around, not even lifting their glasses to their lips, just sitting completely immobile and staring straight ahead with looks of barely suppressed rage on their faces. It must have been one hell of a row they had on the way to the restaurant.
We found the situation amusing, of course, but not nearly as funny as when those two got up in response to the hostess calling, "Smiley -- party of two."
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