“It is not acceptable, you see, when they forget the main …”
“…complements.” Ingrid completed.
“Indeed.” Iris’s gray head bobbed emphatically, loose bun nodding and escapee wisps trailing.
Ingrid touched a hand to her own hair, confirming the tightness of her French braid. All was in order. Good. Iris has always been unbecomingly lax with locks’ management and Ingrid could never understand it. Especially not when Iris was so particular about her condiments’ orderly array.
“I’ll get the hot sauce, then.” Iris turned toward the diner’s kitchen. “And have them hand me some mustard and mayo, while they’re at it.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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