Joe had come back from orientation and their days together before he left for law school were numbered. If I could have been anywhere else I would have been. I needed to get a decent night’s sleep, or at least part of a night’s sleep. I thought I’d have some success napping from about seven to ten before heading off for one of my gigs. No such luck. “What do you mean you don’t like my Spam?” Darla snapped. “It’s disgusting,” Joe said. “It’s not disgusting. It tastes perfectly fine. You mix it in with eggs and Velveeta and it’s good.” “That’s the problem, Spam and Velveeta in the same meal.” Joe shuddered. “Ugh.” “Well, what would you prefer I make?” she asked in a sickly voice. “Would you like lavender-massaged chicken with a side of fingerling potatoes, a pound of which costs more than I used to make in an hour?” Joe grabbed the Spam can of the counter. “This is glutamate hell. You’re feeding us preservative hell,” he insisted, running his finger over the list of ingredients that was half the can long.
