Dash my curry

Last night I dreamed that I went to a little roadside house-turned-eating establishment that, at night, hosted bands and large gatherings attended by college students and the adventurous in search of loud music and alchohol. It was my lunch break, and I had not been able to pack my lunch, so I went there to buy some absolutely delicious giant cloves of roasted garlic that you could eat, still warm, right out of their papery garlic wrapping. I also picked up some potatoes, chicken, and rice, in aluminum foil bunches on an outside grill.

I went inside to see M.I.A, who owned and operated the place. She was cleaning the floor in front. I suddenly realized I had forgotten my wallet. I told her my situation and asked her if my credit was good with her. I was a regular there, and she sort of knew me. She said it was no problem, and I told her I would pay her back the next day. I accidentally spilled something from my food on the floor, and spent a moment cleaning it up with a damp paper towel, hoping that the extra cleaning I was doing (the floor was pretty dirty, as one would expect in such a party spot) would meet with M.I.A.’s approval.