Bertha scraped the last yellow drop of egg yolk from her plate, looked up at me, and said, “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel hungry.”
“Bah. You should always eat a good breakfast. You can’t keep up your strength if you don’t have food in your stomach.” She snapped her fingers at the waitress. “Bring me a Milky Way,” she ordered, and then turned to me to say, “I’ll keep it in my purse in case I have that all-gone feeling around ten o’clock. Bertha’s been awfully sick, lover. Awfully sick.”
“I know it,” I told her, “but you’re completely cured now, aren’t you?”
Bertha opened her purse, took out the blue-tinted check, and regarded it fondly.
“I’ll tell the world,” she said, “Bertha’s all cured.”