“Chicken Parmigiana, please. With extra spaghetti, a piece of garlic bread and a glass of Merlot.” I could drink with lunch, right? It was five o’clock somewhere. Probably multiple somewheres. Since I seemed to be having trouble taking a deep breath—anxiety is a mother fucker—I needed to relax, at least a little. I rarely drank, so the wine would help me nap until Zarren was finished working.
“Of course.”
I didn’t expect him to remember my order, but he repeated it verbatim. Only one seat at the table was occupied. The doctor I’d seen my first day on the ship appeared to have finished eating and was twirling a half-empty glass of dark red liquid in one hand. He stared into the liquid like it held the answers to every mystery in the universe.
I’ll take a glass of what he’s having, please
