“I was watching this thing on TV the other night, and they asked a bunch of world-famous chefs what they would have if they could pick their own last meal.”
“Yeah. It was interesting, because most of them picked really simple stuff. Like hamburgers and fries, or fried chicken and a Coke.”
She looks at me expectantly. I just look back, because I’m not sure what else to do. I take a bite of cheese stick, because although it doesn’t really seem like the thing to do, at least it’s a tasty way to pass the time until I figure out what it is I’m supposed to be doing.
“So?” She asks.
“What would your last meal be?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”
She gives me kind of a horrified look.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s kind of morbid, don’t you think?”
“No. If I had said, ‘Whatever you feel like poisoning at the time,’ that would have been morbid.”
She gives me that look again.