Conspicuous Consumption - The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House - page 30

We stretched and yawned and commented on stunningly inconsequential sights.
Our plan was to keep Melinda waiting for a few minutes to give her a dose of her own
medicine.
At three forty-five, thoroughly bored but certain that Melinda would now be anxiously
awaiting our return, we sauntered back into her rabbit warren, prepared to forgive her tardi-
ness.
It could happen to anyone , we had mentally rehearsed telling her if she apologized too
profusely. Let bygones be bygones , and so forth.
But this time the place was completely empty. Not a soul in sight, not even Señorita
Cold Cuts.
Shaking our heads in disbelief, we sat down dejectedly on the front steps, unsure of our
next move. At about four o'clock Melinda's assistant came waddling up the road, this time
fortifying herself with a rapidly melting ice-cream cone.
“Ah, you come back!” she exclaimed delightedly, as if our return was the most aston-
ishing occurrence of her life.
“Have you heard from Melinda?” Michael asked.
With a quick dart of her bright pink tongue she polished off the ice cream (slurp slurp),
and then the cone (crunch).
We waited in breathless silence.
“Yes, she call,” she said at length.
“And?”
With a dull thud, she sat down at the other end of the porch, which creaked ominously
under her weight.
“She has rummy-tummy problem.”
Michael drew in his breath with a sharp, sucking sound.
“Rummy-tummy?”
“You know,” she said, blushing slightly.
We stared.
She blushed deeper still. Finally she made a vaguely lady-like raspberry sound, rubbing
her stomach all the while.
As pantomimes go, it was a bit crude but we got the point.
“She no come today,” our friend concluded.
We drove back to the house in silence, barely noticing the litter strewn along the side
of the road.
After all, it was somebody else's problem now.