20
It was time to get some lunch and stabilize both our blood sugar levels. Cordelia may have been trying to murder Ralph with her sweet tea. Not that I could blame her. If he didn’t get the stick out of his ass soon, I might pour maple syrup down his throat myself.
Ralph grunted when we passed his favorite fast food restaurant and a perfectly good pizza place. Instead, I stopped at the internet cafe I’d been frequenting.
“Do they even sell real food here?” he asked, skeptical. “Because a muffin is not gonna do it for me right now.”
“Yep,” I said. “I’ll order.”
“Fine,” he said. “I don’t even know what half that hippie crap is.”
A mayonnaise-drenched chicken salad wasn’t substantially better for him than the deep-fried meats and starches we’d passed up, so I got Ralph their version of
