Apparently You Don’t Care That I Am Interested In Your Cornish Game Hens

So I stood there. Waiting for my roast beef sandwich to be prepared by the clerk behind the counter.

And you stood over there. Ovah there, behind the bread bowls and dehydrated pineapple rings. Talking to someone you’d known for years. Telling them that tomorrow night when the kids went to sleep you’d be breaking out those kick-ass cornish game hens. You described them with such drippy adjectives, that I just had to say, “sounds good.”

But apparently you don’t care that I am interested in your cornish game hens.