Last minute stop for lunch. We're starving. Out of energy, out of time. Okay, Subway it is. It's always empty, always good though so we pull in and run inside and all I'm thinking is fooooooood. I need foooooood. So I ask for a foot-long sandwich. On parmesan oregano bread. No way in hell I could eat all that but I may try. Suddenly there's a lineup a mile long behind us. Phew. Got here just in time, Toasted? Yes, please. And to go, we're not eating here. We'll take them home.
Everyone watches as the bill is tallied. Ben is paying and he says really loudly,
You got a foot-long? Jesus, Bridge. You should have told me how hard-up you were before we left the house. I could have given you a footlong.
Only he said it with that grin just as I had taken a sip of my rootbeer. Oh woes, out my nose it goes.
Snort.
Ow. It hurt.
(Not as much as a footl-oh hell, you know how this goes.)
