...smearing of supercrema gianduja!
"It's WHAT?" Carefully peeling back the top slice, I half expect to see a slab of C4 explosive residing on whole wheat.
Nothing but the aroma of filberts and chocolate assaults my nose. My gnawing stomach kicks into a growl. "WHAT is it?" I ask.
Peering around the kitchen door jamb, Cary whispers in a voice oozing venom, "Supercrema gianduja! They made me eat that stuff that summer with Rosa's family. Remember? I broke out in a nasty rash all over my body? My throat swelled up?"
Cary is so dramatic. She's also selectively forgetful. While gathering a roadside bouquet for Rosa's mamma, Sandrina, she'd accidentally harvested some Italian version of poison oak.
I sigh. "You mean Nutella?"
"Yes, NUTELLA," she hisses back at me.
"I'm not offering you any, Cary. This is MY lunch. Go make your own sandwich."
Different perspective from Ric Hardson:
...video tape of Charade!"
Curious about what caused today's outburst, Harlen turned the brown paper parcel over, taking a closer look. Spiky handwriting spelled out five names, one below the other: Mr. Grant, aka Peter Joshua, aka Alexander Dyle, aka Adam Canfield, aka Brian Cruikshank. No address. No return address. Three tired looking stamps were affixed to the upper right corner.
Laying the package with the rest of today's mail on the bed, Harlen walked around behind the wheelchair. "C'mon, Cary. Let's head out for the day room. Lawrence Welk is on this afternoon."
"Lawrence Welk?" His panicky breathing now back to normal, Cary began humming some old dance tune Harlen didn't recognize.
"Yep, good ol' Lawrence." Harlen chuckled. "I bet that cute little Norma Zimmer will be on today, too."
Still humming, the old man wearing big, black-framed glasses closed his eyes and smiled.
source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek275.html
No comments:
Post a Comment