“Hey, Mr. Dennis.”
“Hey, Moises,” I said. “Come on over and join me.”
Moises sat down at my table on the Holiday Hotel Deck with his little brown bag of food from Celi’s Deli.
“What are you eating this morning?” I asked. “I had three of those meat pies.”
“I got six meat pies, a breakfast burrito and a breakfast tortilla.”
“What?! How can someone your size eat that much food?”
“I could eat more,” Moises said, “But I ran out of money. I feel like I’m starving to death.”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t you get married last week?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t your wife cook?”
“She cooks.”
“Why don’t you have her fix something for you to eat?”
“I can’t eat her cooking anymore,” Moises said.
“Is she a bad cook?”
“Sh-h,” Moises said. “Here she comes.”
Moises wife walked up onto the deck and said, “Ah-hah! I found you. You won’t eat my cooking but you’ll spend good money to eat here.”
Moises sat there looking miserable.
“This man,” she said to me. “He does not like the food I cook for him. He is picky about what he eats and he is so hard to please.”
“Oh, I’m sure . . .”
“I tell you he is hard to please,” she interrupted me. “Tuesday I cooked potatoes for him and he liked them. Wednesday we had them again and he liked them. Then we had potatoes Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Now, all of a sudden he doesn’t like potatoes.”
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