My Cardboard Balcony

"I like potatoes." "Okay, then." "No, I mean I really like potatoes. Mashed, scalloped, baked, boiled, whatever." "Last time it was cheesecake, John. Now it's potatoes?" "Drunks aren't picky. What comes to mind comes to mind." "You're particularly verbose tonight." "Liqueur makes me verbose. Beer makes me stupid." "John..." "It makes me stupid." "Okay..." " Very stupid!" "I got it." "So can we have potatoes?" "What?" "Can we have potatoes?" "I don't think we have those in the house." "Go buy some!" "Hell, no. You buy them." "I am not walking to the grocery store to buy potatoes!" "You're the one who said he wanted them!" "Yeah...but actually getting them requires effort." "I'm not getting you potatoes."

"The instructions are in German." I stopped making dinner for a brief moment. "What?" "The instructions," she repeated, gesturing at the flimsy packet of paper that was bristling in her hands. "For the radio. It's in German." "Okay, but is it in English, too?" "No." I tried again. "Spanish? French?" " Nada. Non. "