“Who gets kicked out of the Olive Garden?” I asked.
The obvious answer, of course, being we do. The assistant ass-wipe—I mean, manager—had been downright rude, although he hadn’t hustled us out the door before running my credit card. Meanwhile, our waitress had boxed up our leftovers and put our coffee in go-cups. Cissy was rustling in the plastic bag of food.
“Aww, she gave us a piece of pie for the road. Wasn’t that sweet? I guess you can’t eat while you’re driving, huh?”
“No, you go right ahead and help yourself. I just hope you washed your hands.”
Cissy laughed, pulled out a plastic fork and dug in. “It ain’t homemade, but even bad apple pie is good apple pie.”
“You want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Well, Sydney, sometimes life is just too short to suffer assholes.”
“Re
