by Paul Levinson
Jon slammed the piece of mail on the table, knocking off a buttered half of bagel in the process. It teetered on its edge on the floor for a moment, then fell down squarely on the buttered side.
"Another wrong credit card charge," he called up to Trudi between curses. "Seems we stayed at the Coach and Chariot Inn last month."
"With or without the kids?" Trudi walked in and sighed. She picked up the credit card statement and shook her head. "This is—what?—the third mistake like this since the new year?"
"Cancel the card." Jon scooped up the bagel, surveyed the sticky dust, and tossed it in the garbage. "If these people are too lame to get their charges straight, we’ll go elsewhere."
"We need the credit line," Trudi said. "I just got a cash advance—"
"Do whatever you want, then." Jon waved his hand in disgust. "But let’s at least call the company and explain that we were at your mother’s house getting heartburn on her cooked-to-death chicken when they say we were in the whirlpool at the Chariot."
"Right," Trudi said, "as soon as I finish with the Motor Vehicles people about why my new registration isn’t here yet. And my mother’s chicken is manna from heaven compared to your mother’s hydrochloric pot roast."