“If it’s not on the menu, we don’t have it,” Clara declared, but the customer was not mollified.
“You have eggs, right?” the incredibly tiny woman asked. Clara had to lean over the counter even to see the diminutive pest.
“We have eggs,” Clara stated as blandly as she could.
“So you could theoretically boil ’em am I right?”
“If it’s not on the menu, we don’t have it,” Clara repeated herself. If there was one thing Clara hated, it was repeating herself. If there were two things Clara hated, the second would have been customers who insisted on ordering things that were not on the menu. As it was, there were far more things that Clara hated. These two items were not even in the top one hundred. Residing at number one, for the umpteenth week in a row, was the way her sister (Mary, a.k.a. Magma) brushed her teeth every half hour on the half hour. Even though they were no longer living in the same house, or even in the same city, this remained Clara’s top pet peeve, and would, in the end, outlive the sister herself. On her last dying day, Clara would still hang on to that somehow visceral hatred.
It had all begun the day their father set foot on the moon Europa.