Milton stared hard at the large bowl on the table. The vibrant green of the lettuce and arugula leaves, along with the paler shade of green that the slices of cucumber evidenced, seemed to dance around the sides of the bowl, while the small, dark slices of olive, the much larger slices of the deep red tomatoes and the pale yellow bits of cheese appeared to be having a symposium of sorts in the center of the bowl, while the stark white of the little chunks of cold chicken sat like errant rocks on a well-mowed lawn.
Milton eyeballed the bottle of ranch dressing. He reached over with his right hand and grabbed it as if it were a lifeline, then violently twisted the cap off. Without a second of hesitation he proceeded to pour the thick creamy sauce over the entire conglomeration of healthy ingredients.
After setting the nearly empty bottle down he took up the large fork that lay on the napkin beside the bowl. His eyes examined the fork as if he was looking for a clue that might solve a major crime. Slowly he lifted his arm and directed the fork toward the salad.
*Erhm* Yeah, this isn't working. Guess the old saying is right, no great story ever began with a salad.
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