The sound of Neal Rockwell II

Today I actually ate chicken legs. My companion asked me to remove the batter from his portions. My fingers sunk themselves into the task. Their ensued a pile of napkins and a great deal of complaint about the corn. He said he was more of a breast man.

It’s a Vancouver institution I said of the place where we sat. And listen to the great Euro pop music.

My companion asserted that far from Euro pop it was a radio station that every man was familiar with.

This encounter with actual chicken, in actual batter, on actual plastic seats has temporarily derailed me from the sound of Neal Rockwell. Neal Rockwell has become the older woman beside me who along with her husband bought a box of baby wipes with her and her husband reached into a red carrier bag and fed her 5 green or purple figs.  You married well, I wanted to call across but was put off by the matter of us all drinking fizzy pop that will drive us up and back in the dental chair regardless of who we marry or how many figs we eat or whether Neal Rockwell can hear us.