Once a week, Sylvia and I travel to Tim Horton's to replenish her supply of Ice Caps. Consequently, during the drive home her lap is home to a half-dozen of the chilly coffee drinks, perched there rather precariously. "One day we're going to hit a bump and those are going to fly all over the place," I've noted more than once.
I often tease Sylvia about her near-addiction to Ice Caps, if only because it rivals my own fondness for Coca-Cola. Sometimes the form of that teasing takes a macabre turn.
"What if," I speculated the other day, "We rolled the car while transporting a load of Ice Caps? Not an accident where we'd be hurt, but just one of those lucky no-injury crashes. We'd land wheels-up, but we'd both have Ice Cap goo all over us. We'd be drenched in it."
"You'd love that," she remarked, sipping her drink.
Well, aside from the expense of repairing the car, maybe. If nothing else, it might make a good scene in one of those Wes Anderson-style farces...
I often tease Sylvia about her near-addiction to Ice Caps, if only because it rivals my own fondness for Coca-Cola. Sometimes the form of that teasing takes a macabre turn.
"What if," I speculated the other day, "We rolled the car while transporting a load of Ice Caps? Not an accident where we'd be hurt, but just one of those lucky no-injury crashes. We'd land wheels-up, but we'd both have Ice Cap goo all over us. We'd be drenched in it."
"You'd love that," she remarked, sipping her drink.
Well, aside from the expense of repairing the car, maybe. If nothing else, it might make a good scene in one of those Wes Anderson-style farces...
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