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It used to just be me and Zooker.
Well before I graduated college, married, divorced and remarried. Before I took a single ballet lesson. Before I began writing for newspapers. Before everything happened, I had Zooker. Before that, I was a waitress.
I was a terrible waitress. My tips didn’t fold; they jangled. I spent too long talking about books with the customers I liked and not enough time remembering who needed a refill on his iced tea.
But one of the customers I liked was a guy named Fish. I might have liked him just because his name was Fish, considering I can no longer remember anything about him – except for, of course, the one time he tipped me way better than I deserved.
He had a box of puppies and he told me to pick one.
I picked Zooker.
Let me go back just a few days. That particular restaurant from which I attempted to earn a living was a German deli and café. Just a few days earlier, the owner and I had been poring through a cookbook – she was looking for a new dinner special and I was helping by pointing at photographs. Suddenly an actual word caught my eye.
“Zucker? This sauce has zucker in it.”
“I’ve never heard of zucker. How can there be an ingredient I’ve never heard of?”
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