“The lettuce is frozen.” It is unmistakably the same voice we heard berating our conductor last night while the train stopped for a midnight boarding in Indianapolis.  “And this cucumber. Look. Look at this. I can’t eat this. What am I supposed to do?”
“You can pick something else. We’ve got the chicken, the penne, the sandwiches.”
“What kind of sandwiches?”
“The reuben, the black forest ham, the turkey.”
Silence. “I’ll try the reuben.”
“Okay.” He dumps her salad in the trash. “She’ll try the reuben.” He opens a refrigerator, tears open a bag.
“Does it have any vegetables!”
“Oh dear.”
“You don’t want the reuben?”
“I need my vegetables. Now what am I supposed to do?”

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