In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Something Like That
The supermarket, a few days before equinox.
Ringing up my six dozen, the cashier says, “Sure is a lot of eggs.”
“Getting ready for the holiday,” I say.
“Easter's not for weeks yet,” she says.
“Ours is next week,” I say, not really wanting to get into it.
She looks at me curiously.
“You must be Russian,” she says.
“Something like that,” I say.
Please login first in order for you to submit comments