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Click here to read "Tonsorial Parlor"
[excerpted from "Tonsorial Parlor" published in Hirschworth, 10/20/2013]
“No salt,” said The Other
Sal, having accepted a slice from Big Sal.
“Not enough pepper, and the carrots are hard.”
“You don’t like anything my wife cooks,” said Big Sal.
“Then why do you bring her stuff to me?”
“Because she tells me to,” he shrugged, and brought the
tips of his fingers together and upward.
These had been the first words spoken between the men in seven days.
“You’re a grown man, Sal, an old grown man. Why don’t you tell her to go screw?”
“She’s my wife, Sal.”
“Doesn’t change the fact your wife cooks like shit,” said
The Other Sal.
“Maybe.”
“For thirty years I’ve been telling you this.”
“Thirty years you’ve been telling me a lot of things.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Here we go,” Rhonda muttered as she put down her fork
and took up her steno pad and pen. She
brushed her long dark hair back over her shoulders and perched sideways on her
chair.
