#muselybingly

Flemish expletives echoed in the stacks of books. “You alright, ma?” Lydia called from the check out counter. Susan Sinclair answered + picked up the fallen books. It was a slow morning so far, and Lydia let her earl grey from tea & coffee go cold. She shrugged, and went back to flipping through this months Nylon.

Phoebe had invited some friends over for dinner and as soon as Peter heard that she was attempting to cook for them all, he volunteered to help. (And by help, he meant cook everything - start to finish. If Phoebe had been left in charge, at best, she’d make something inedible ... at worst, they’d all end up with food poisoning). 

Peter hadn’t let her near anything edible. She insisted that she was more than capable of at least peeling the potatoes (and would have gone right ahead) if Peter hadn’t given put a stack of plates in her hands and directed her to set the table. And then all he had to do was bring up the bar and Phoebe got too distracted filling him in with everything that Camille had been working on to notice that he wasn’t letting her help at all in the kitchen.” 

“If she wins, I’m moving to Canada,” Phoebe announced dramatically, “I will have lost all faith in the American justice system.” 

She laughed, as though she might be kidding, but the thought that Peter wouldn’t get his bar back, seemed so absurd to Phoebe that she would have been stunned if he didn’t win. She couldn’t imagine a case being more cut and dry: the bar was Peter’s and everyone in town knew that. His name was literally on it. It was called Sullivan’s for god’s sake.