"WELL! I am never buying anything in there again,'' I snorted, as I handed my friend her cup of brew, two artificial sugars, no milk.
The silent pucker on her Botoxed brow said, "You're over-reacting.''
"Look, I scalded my hand,'' I wailed. "I could sue them like the lady in the States sued McDonalds for a million dollars for serving her coffee so hot it burnt her. And she was driving when the coffee spilt.''
"Okay,'' she said, pretending to care. "How did it happen?''
"I dropped the cover of one of the cups when I was sweetening the coffee. I asked for another and the young lady tells me no, she can't give me another cover. I figured it was a stupid management rule, so why quarrel with the poor worker.
"So I had two hot cups of coffee in my hands and in trying to push the door to get out, the one without the cover spilt all over my hand. I am in there every day, sometimes twice a day, for coffee, plus croissants and bagels and other contraband.
"And they prefer to see me get scarred for life rather than give me a plastic cover? I shall be writing a strong letter to management about this. That is not customer service.''
She sighed, one of those deep, wooshy sounds, as if she were on the verge of uttering the two words no one should ever say to an angry Trinidadian woman.
"Don't dare tell me to calm down,'' I fumed.
"Let's go shopping,'' she said, cleverly changing the subject. I heard some muttering that sounded like "All this fuss,'' but it was Saturday and there was the promise of new fandangles ahead.
So I quelled the tempest in my throat, though my hand and pride were still stinging from the coffee insult.
"Oh, look, the Bandolino shoes I promised to get Mum for her birthday,'' she shrieked, as we hit the upper level of Trincity Mall.
Aaaah, the shoes–who could resist such an embrace of elegance. They were a modern, high-heeled version of a traditional T-strap but with peep-toe cut-outs. They had style, they had flair, they had a price tag to scare. Those babies were just under $1,000 a pair.
I removed myself from the scene of the crime and lurked outside the store, like the getaway driver.
After a few minutes, the maximum shopper came blustering out. "Well, I am never going back in there, that's for sure,'' she declared.
"What happened?''
Breathlessly: "I was distracted by some Franco Sarto faux snakeskin sandals and I broke the little plastic stand the shoe was on. It wasn't my fault. It fell. I said I was sorry. Don't laugh!''
"Kyah, kyah, kyah! Sorry, I don't mean to laugh, kyah, kyah, kyah. Did you get the shoes?''
"Of course not. When I asked for a size 9, the sales person showed me the plastic stand as if it was Exhibit A in a murder trial and said, 'You paying for this, right?' Harrumph.''
"But you broke it, Ms Moneypenny!''
"I could get that stand for under $2 on amazon.com!'' she retorted, stomping off in her Kenneth Cole leopardprint loafers. "I was going to buy two pairs of their wretched shoes. That's $2,000! You know how much money I have dropped in that store over the years! That is not customer service!''
I could have said something about the shoe pinching when it was on the proverbial other foot but instead I hooked my arm in hers, flashed a dazzling toothpaste-commercial smile, and replied: "You're right. Let's go compose a strongly worded letter to management.''
She beamed. "We'll live dangerously. Let's go to that place you are never going back to and get coffee with no covers on the cups!''
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