Uhh . . . Okay

I'm really, really sorry for the woman who died a couple of days ago when a piece of building fell on her.

But my febrile brain must recreate the conversation, as it usually does:

"Oh, honey, I'm so glad to be back here, at our favorite Mikasa sushi restaurant under this glass awning that's so convenient given the 364 straight days of rain we've had."

"Yes, dear, isn't it marvelous? Happy birthday!"

"But I kind of don't want to sit here at this table, even though there are twenty and most of them are unoccupied. How about over there?"

"You mean the one that's directly under the three-by-eight concrete slab that's perched on the wall of this hotel at around the 18th-floor level and looks to have a crack -- is that a crack? -- in it?"

"Yes, dear, that's exactly the table I want to sit at."

"Okay, sweetheart!"

(Waiter): "May I take your order?"

"Yes! I'll have the steak teppanyaki. Make it extra-well done, please!"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll make sure the chef understands."

"Yes, because I don't want to have to take the leftovers home and not be able to line my Gucci shoes with them!"

"Understood!"

"Uhh, dear?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What's that man wearing a tall white hat hanging out of the 18th-floor window up there doing with that chisel and hammer?"

"Well, I can't realy te --"