Spaghetti, nope.
Steak, you wish.
Something you can't pronounce, no.
Cookies, not a meal. Or so you've been told.
Stress cooking has always been a back up for you and you attack the skillet and oven for the next hour and a half.
Halfway through eating, your phone rings. It's your mother.
"Hi mom."
"Hi, honey...sniff...something's happened."
"What Mom?" you ask becoming anxious.
"Your sister was at a friend's last night and on the way home a drunk driver..." your mother sobs.
"Mom. I'm leaving right now, I'll be home as fast as I can drive." You say jumping up and running to your room. You throw a few things in a bag then run back to the kitchen, scribble a note for your roommate and hurry out the door.
Fin
- A. Oswald
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