Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“I’ll have the ghost pepper pie,” I said.
The waitress’s expression was that of a cop approaching a rooftop jumper. The words Are you sure? crouched unsaid on her lips.
I glanced out at the bleak Alberta winterscape. The meteorologists were rejoicing at the mid-February heatwave as the mercury rocketed up to -20.
“I just need a little heat in my life,” I whispered.
Twenty minutes later, my mouth was ablaze and sweat poured off me like a monsoon. I closed my eyes and imagined Cancun.
The manager noticed. The next week, they were advertising Mexican vacations, $4.99 a slice.
