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“You fucking bitch,” Ally said.
“This is more like it,” Tex said.
I started to come out of my chair, intent on ripping Cherry’s face off, when the lady at the table behind us spoke.
“Excuseme, we’re trying toeat,” she told Cherry.
I looked at the lady. She was Kitty Sue’s age, hair dyed a stern brunette, petite and soft in the middle.
“Pipe down, you old bag. I’m having a conversation,” Cherry said to her.
Like I said, first-class bitch.
The woman looked to her husband who was sitting across the table from her. “Did she just call me an old bag?”
He looked scared. Menopausal Martha had obviously been unleashed.
She looked back to Cherry. “You can’t call me an old bag. I’m only fifty-two. Fifty is the new forty,” she told Cherry.
“Old’s old, and you’re old,” Cherry told her and then turned to me. She opened her mouth to speak again when a pea flew through the air and settled in Cherry’s Farrah Fawcett locks.
Uh-oh.
This was not good.
Cherry felt it and started batting at her hair like she was being swarmed by killer bees.
Once the pea flew out, she turned to the older woman. “Did you just throw a pea at me?”
In answer, the woman picked another pea out of her fried rice and threw it at Cherry. It bounced off Cherry’s chin and landed on the floor.
“Food fight!” Tex boomed, and I turned and shushed him.
“What going on here?” We all looked at Hostess Lady who was front of the house at Twin Dragons. She was absolutely cool, cool, cool. Gorgeous, slim, her black hair always pinned back in an elegant bun, and she was a top-notch artist with eyeliner.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to be peacemaker and salvage the night so I could have more drinks and get to my sesame chicken.
“She called me an old bag,” the other lady said, foiling my plan.
Hostess Lady turned to Cherry. “Did you call her old bag?”
“Sheisan old bag. Jeesh, what’s the big fuckin’ deal?”
“That not nice,” Hostess Lady proclaimed.
“And! This table was minding their own business and she just walked up and started talking about…” the lady’s voice dropped to a whisper, “blowjobs.”
Hostess Lady turned to Cherry and her eyes narrowed frighteningly.
“You harass my customer with dirty talk? What you problem?” she asked.
Then, out of nowhere a bowl of egg drop soup came flying through the air. The bowl collided with Cherry’s head, the soup dripping down her hair and shoulder.
We all turned to see Marianne standing and panting, her hands fists at her side.
“You slept with my husband!” Marianne screeched.
Oh Lord.
