Abby
“Abby, why don’t you sit down?”
Karl looks up at me from where he’s sitting on the sofa, a look of concern on his face. He pats the spot next to him, but I shake my head.
“I can’t,” I say, continuing to pace back and forth in our living room. “I won’t sit down until I hear back about that critic’s column.”
Karl sighs heavily. “I understand your worry, but it could be days. You’re not going to pace for days, now, are you?”
I don’t respond and simply continue my pacing.
This is how it’s been all morning; I’ve been pacing back and forth, chewing my nails into oblivion.
The food critic, Alfred Cunningham, simply walked out of my restaurant last night after taking one bite of the black farro mafaldine. No compliments, no complaints, nothing. He just threw his m
