She’s a pimple faced girl. Vicious scowl. Anxious to get back to texting. “Only one alcoholic beverage per order. Rules.”
She’s explained it twice already. Once in mumbles. Once in a slow “get it through your thick head old man” delivery. There’s a sign about it somewhere in the cluster fuck behind her but I’m missing the movie and how complicated can two beers be?
“Bet there’s a rule about that fucking phone.”
“Nope. No rules about that.”
I grab her pink cell and throw it into the popcorn machine, planning to let that be the end of it but anger has its own agenda.Continue Reading