The Gravitational Pull of Barry

Barry considered himself a connoisseur of fine dining, if only from watching too many cooking shows. Tonight, he was attempting to impress Fiona with a spontaneous, yet elegant, gesture: fetching her a fresh sparkling water from the bar. "Don't move," he'd declared, with the confidence of a man who hadn't tripped over his own feet three times getting *to* the restaurant.

He returned, a precarious tray balanced with two glasses, each shimmering with effervescence. The mission: navigate the dimly lit, densely packed bistro. Barry took a deep breath. His internal monologue was a dramatic score, building to a crescendo. He imagined himself a gazelle, gracefully weaving through the urban jungle.

In reality, he was a very large, slightly wobbly moose.

First, an unsuspecting waiter's elbow became an obstacle. A gentle tilt of the tray. Then, a sudden, inexplicable rogue shoelace (his own, naturally) attacked his left ankle. The tilt became a sway. The sway became a full-blown seismic event. The sparkling waters, no longer content in their glasses, launched skyward like tiny, carbonated rockets.

They arced gracefully, then descended with ruthless precision. One found its mark on the head of a startled diner mid-forkful of risotto. The other, with a splash worthy of a synchronized swimming routine, landed squarely in Fiona's lap.

Barry, meanwhile, having lost all sense of balance, performed an involuntary pirouette, finally collapsing backwards into a decorative, yet surprisingly deep, indoor fountain. He emerged, dripping and defeated, to the sight of Fiona dabbing her now-soaked dress, a single eyebrow raised in amused resignation. "Another round, Barry?" she asked, a giggle escaping. Barry just gargled.