IV.

Marge was not old, she was not tall, and she did not care if everyone in Fogley’s Crest laughed at her attempt to hack down the noxious twits. or if they knew why. (of course they knew why.) Sighing once more she climbed back onto the stool at the base of the stove, promptly took a lady like swig of Merlot from the bottle, and tasted the soup, nearly searing the flesh off her tongue. She scowled, grabbed her cardigan, and flounced out the door. Dinner could wait ‘til tomorrow.