The quiet about lunchtime. Sunny truck yard behind Island Intermodal. Middle-aged warehouseman. Hasn't shaved today. He's not breaking a sweat, saunters over to check on the barbecue smoking outside the open bay door.
She rolls up, passes, fast like all messengers, parks her silver Honda at her office back door. Brunette. Sunglasses. Striped top. Looks great in jeans.
He looks away, fascinated suddenly with whatever's charring on the grill, as she notices him over her shoulder. She's just about dancing now, turning and dawdling, in those exceptionally well-fitting blue jeans of hers, and calling over words of warning she just caught off the latest news.
"It's not hot dogs, right?"
"What?"
"It's not pork, right?"
"Naww..." and mumbling.
"Huh?"
More mumbling, and "...hot dogs."
"Shouldn't eat pork, they said."
"Pork..." and mumbling.
"They said on the news. Don't eat pork."
Mumble mumble..."Burger."
"Hamburger. Ohh."
"Beef!"
"Beef. Okayyy."
Both laughed.
Eight minutes, this quickjot. Tea's gonna need microwave zapping.
So. According to WHO...'coz of this fluuu...now pork's off the menuuu. Next, coffee will be bad for me...or good...depending on when I hear it.
Easter Monday in B.C. 2024!
3 weeks ago
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