Two waitresses are talking as they work the counter on a busy Sunday morning. The one pouring coffee asks, "You know that older guy who comes in here whose wife is in the hospital with cancer?"
The other waitress shrugs as she scratches figures on a diner's tab.
"Well, she passed on this morning," says the first one. "Poor guy was in here about an hour ago."
"I'm not sure who you mean," says the other waitress, looking up from her arithmetic.
"French toast and sausage."
They both nod and return to work.
Note found in the laundry room of my apartment building on Irving Park Road: "To whoever stole my skanky, 10-year-old sheets: I hope the dog barf came out when I washed them." The letter closed with "I feel much better."