It's Friday evening and you've finally found a way to quit the reports needing your attention back at the office.  You've walked down to the waterfront, to the familiar pink awning over Martha's Pies, where you seek baked-goods-solace at the end of each work week.  Stepping into the deserted interior, you walk up to the display case to pick out the slice that will set the tone for your fun-filled weekend.  Your eyes immediately lock on to a pale green piece of key lime pie that's festooned with a delectable puff of whipped cream.  Glancing up at  Martha herself - a dour woman who's never smiled during any of the visits you've made to her establishment over the past year - you point to your selection and tell her you don't need it wrapped up.  Without a word, she retrieves the pie wedge, places it on a paper plate, pierces it with a plastic fork, and hands it to you, fork handle pointing up at the ceiling.  You drop four loonies into her hand and mutter your thanks, turning on your heel and walking out the door into what is fast becoming a gloomy spring night.

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