We’re riding in a car to a meeting for Katie’s business, about to cross the bridge, when I do that thing that apparently I’ve done since I was a very little child and start reading interesting signs I haven’t seen before.
“Forno’s Italian Restaurant and Cafe,” I pronounce, as if I’m reading scripture at Sunday service.
“Was that the name of the pizza place by where we stayed in Chicago?” Katie asks.
“I keep wanting to say ‘Fiorello’s’ but I know that’s not it,” I reply.
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