Mell-o Yell-o
Long shift at the deli counter. I guess nobody around here wants to cook on Friday nights, because they all seem to end up at the back of the store, ordering our greasy, overcooked chicken tenders.
I overheard a story, as I served up reheated chicken. There were these two rich ladies waiting in my line—for feta and prosciutto, as it turned out—and one was telling the other what she considered to be a “horror story” about the house-sitter breaking a bottle of wine.
“Not the Barolo we gave you!” the other lady said.
“No, no—a reasonable Cab. The damn fool woman broke it against the wall, would you believe. Milton and I arrive home to find a b****y mess and a harried letter of apology. I tell you, the damage is more than just surface-deep. We may need to have the whole
