Gauche

I sat on my bed and stared at the brightly painted, Polynesian music box. My grandmother had bought it on one of her cruise expeditions.

I cranked its tiny knob and threw open the lacquered lid. A tinny version of “Lovely Hula Hands” wafted into the air. It was a romantic song for a beautiful maiden. No words, however. I decided to devise my own: “Lovely Hula Hands, dressed in rubber bands, la la.”

My mother snarled, “Turn that off. It’s gauche.” I wasn’t sure if she meant the box or me. Or my grandmother. Probably all three of us.