from home?”
Mika’s eyes crinkle. “Belgian trippe sausage.”
“Is it a beef or a pork sausage?” I ask with interest.
“It’s made from pork and cabbage. Back home, the sausage is made out of the choicest pork from a recently butchered hog.”
“Ugh,” I groan, feeling slightly squeamish, an image of a pitiful pig popping into my head. It’s fattened up and ready to be slaughtered. Oh no. I hear the distinct high pitched screech of a pig squealing for its dear life.
“Ooooooooh Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-kaaaaaaaaaaaa,” shrills Truong.
For a split second there, Truong sounded like a squealing pig.
“Yeah?” says Mika apprehensively.
Truong rests his chin on his dainty wrists. “Have you tried Vietnamese trippe sausage?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
Eyeing Mika with a come-hither expression, Truong picks up a french fry and points it to his nether region, an area I prefer not to mention. “Ahem…well, I’ve got one right here.” He grins wolfishly.
Without meaning to, I burst out laughing. But I quickly clap my hand over my mouth when I catch the look on Mika’s face, which has turned several shades of red by now.
“Truong!” I chide. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Thankfully, Mika quickly recovers. Instead of crimson red, his cheeks are now tinged a light pink and he’s smiling, taking it in stride. “Sorry, Truong, I’ll have to decline your offer,” he says good-naturedly.
Truong pulls a tiny face. “If you ever change your mind...”
“Truong! Quit harassing Mika!” I admonish and crack open a can of Ensure. I take a swig. Mmmmmm, not bad at all. Tastes like watered down chocolate shake.
Right then, Bob Seely plods into the cafeteria, bursting out of his black cotton T, which looks it was purchased at Baby Gap.
Truong smirks, “Simon Cowell wants his shirt back.”
“Tsk-tsk,” I tsk. “He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.”
“Bag of chips?” Truong snorts. “More like a sack of potatoes.”
I take two successive chugs of my Ensure. Honestly, I have no idea what Kars sees in that Potato Head.
Mika smiles at me with frank amusement. “Is that all you are having today?”
“What?” I jerk my head.
“That,” he says, pointing to my can of Ensure.
“Oh, this?” I raise my can. “Kars is on an all-liquid diet so I’m on the diet too to support her.”
Truong rolls his eyes. “Girl, if Kars jumps off a bridge, will you jump off too?”
“No,” I say defiantly. “But I’d be waiting at the bottom of the bridge to catch her. I’m just being a supportive friend.” I take another swig to prove my point. “Plus, it’s a good way for me to keep fit, lose some weight, detoxify my liver—”
Oopsie! My stomach makes a gurgling noise. And each time I think it will stop, it chugs and churns like a locomotive train.
Zoinks. It even makes a high pitched whistling sound.
Mika’s mouth twitches and Truong erupts with laughter.
“Screw it,” I snap and reach for one of Truong’s french fries.
Something is missing though. I fish out my bottle of powdered cinnamon and dust it all over the plate of fries.
I am gaga over cinnamon, and I love cinnamon rolls and Cinnabons, much to the detriment of my burgeoning waistline. And I sprinkle cinnamon on everything. It is truly my wonder spice and I never leave home without my faithful bottle.
Truong and Mika stare at me as if I were whacko.
“What?” I cry defensively. “It tastes better. Try one,” I offer.
Mika politely declines.
Truong grabs a cinnamon fry and sticks it in his mouth.
That’s one thing I love about Truong—he’ll try anything and is game for everything.
“So?” I look at Truong expectantly.
He twists his lips. “Tastes like a soggy churro stick.”
“Cinnamon has a ton of health benefits. It helps reduce inflammation, it lowers your cholesterol, it—”
Truong interjects, “Says who?”
I tilt my chin. “Says Suzanne Somers.”
Truong wags a french fry at me. “Hey, do you own a Suzanne Somers Thigh Master?”
“Yes,” I say indignantly, “as a matter of fact I do.”
“You do?” His mouth slackens.
I nod fiercely. Like every woman in the world, I strive for smaller thighs. “The Thigh Master is the best way to shape and firm your inner thighs with just a few squeezes a day,” I intone in my best infomercial voice.
Truong makes a cuckoo sign at me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Bob taking a seat next to Nina, or is it Mena? Anyway, she is that annoying bragasaurus who used to sit by me.
“So, they didn’t fire that bitch,” I say to no one in particular.
Truong instantly knows who I