Let me set the scene for you: It was a deliciously warm evening and I was having a perfectly lovely dinner in the South End. I was seated at an outdoor table with a close friend, catching up over a flickering candle. The combination of the warm breeze and the glass of prosecco was melting away residual stress like a bathtub full of Calgon. Then I heard the dreaded noise: Thwack, slap. Thwack, slap. Over and over.
A couple wearing flip-flops decided that the appropriate footwear for fine dining was rubber sandals that smell like a tire fire. Naturally they were seated next to me. The gentleman crossed his legs, revealing an absolutely filthy foot in the moonlight. His companion, otherwise well dressed, had feet that looked like she spent the day in the nearest creek panning for gold.