Fontana’s wasn’t exactly what I would call healthy. I ordered the Shrimp Diablo. The young waitress was barely civil, but I treated her warmly nonetheless; I always go out of my way to not be like my mom in these situations. She often felt she was being mocked—so she mocked back. She’d get nervous and mock a waitress, a cab driver, a neighbor. Sometimes they didn’t notice, but often they did and a fight would break out, ending with her in tears. Now I’m more detached, but when she mocked me as a teenager I had to restrain myself from scratching her face or biting her. All in all, though, my mom was the cozier parent, no contest. I loved it when we cuddled; the warmth and smell of her body in a baby blue nylon nightie. Her big, soft breasts falling this way and that. Once, at around fifteen, I did briefly try to strangle her during one of those mocking episodes. That’s when I discovered there’s no satisfaction in violence; it actually works in reverse, making you the bad one.