I’m in the middle of my tuna melt when Wendy tells me she’s got a woman on the line with a clown stuck in her window well. Great.
“Can I call her after my break?” I say with a mouth full of moist tuna.
To which Wendy says, “I’m really sorry but she sounds like hysterics.”
Wendy’s big for her age, her age being about 55—or 20 years my senior—and big being residual body mass from her college rugby days.
I put the rest of my lunch in foil.