I picked the limp lettuce off the day-old bun and swore at her.I picked the limp lettuce off the day-old bun and swore at her. "Christ Doris, how many times I come in here I tell you no freakin' five week old limp, grey lettuce?!" "So sue me," she muttered, her back to me as she walked back towards the kitchen. "Is yr limp wrist too fuckin' weak ta pick it off??" I wanted to hit her. I imagined her head exploding from the impact of a baseball bat I'd swing straight and true at the base of her skull, bloody bits of brain and bone shrapnel spattering all over the place, declaring my revenge. Instead, I smiled at the girl, Karen. "Hey, welcome to Noo Yawk, kid," I laid on my best Bronx accent for her. She laughed out loud. We ate, she talked a little, mostly about music, bands, MTV, stupid crap. I asked her when she graduated high school and she stumbled, while she tried to remember how old she'd said she was, and calculate what year she would have graduated. |