What accident of spacetime, whose god, what astrophysics, biochemistry or legerdemain could have delivered us to each other’s company in this faraway corner of Eden?
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We’ve been holed up here a week. Superannuated gangsters of something or other, gone to the mattresses.
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Sonia made lasagna. And all night people who’d never been to Sorellas, didn’t know from the chef sister, saying: Man, that is delicious.
Sandy wants to know — again — if the salmon is wild.
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It’s not always Saturday night at Sorellas, you know. And that’s just the kind of crap that ticks him off.
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