“The French say ‘kwuh-zont’. It’s just ignorant people who say ‘kruh-zont’.” There were glances in my direction. “Educated people, people who know, would never say ‘kruh-zont’. It sounds ignorant, doesn’t it. Just think about it. ‘Kruh-zont’. So ignorant.”

I grab the bacon out of the microwave where you had forgotten it, and your mother scoops coffee out of a jar and throws it into an oversized mug.

Insistent, you turn on me. “We need to start saying ‘kruh-zont’. Don’t you agree?” I wave a piece of burnt bacon above my head. “Viva la fuckin’ France.” I slurp my bitter coffee.