“I'm hungry,” Spring [1] said. “And I don't want to eat quesedea.” She was refering to the leftover meal from La Bamba, a Spanish/Mexican restaurant down the street.
“Well,” I said. “There's cereal.”
“Yes, but that means I have to use the milk which expires at midnight.”
“Midnight? I hardly think that the milk is going `Ah, 11:59, I'm still good. I'm still good. Ah, midnight! Time to go bad!' ” I said.
She looked at me funny. “Obviously you don't know milk,” she said. “Midnight! Time to spoil!”