With my first chicken, I was going for “crispy” but ended up with “dry beyond chewing.” Next time I was going for “juicy” but ended up with raw. As I watched my husband pick his food for a good piece here and there, I had this terrifying thought:
The bell rang as I pushed the door of the local convenience store. There was a big mirror placed below the ceiling, tilted so that the cashier could keep an eye on the visitors in the store – in case somebody got the hots for shoplifting. My eyes would always accidentally lock on the mirror, and this time I saw a 40-year old man with a darling little girl standing at the register.
I kept checking the mirror – couldn’t help it – as I was browsing the snacks. The man and his daughter couldn’t see me (unless they looked up in the mirror) because there was a shelf between us, but I could hear their every word.
“Will that be all?”, said the cashier. The man had placed a 300 ml bottle of vodka in front of the register.
“Daddy, can I have this?” – she was holding a mini-chocolate, the kind they make half the size of a regular chocolate bar.
“No baby, I don’t have that much money with me.”
The dad was drunkish.