I've just arrived at my work in the morning, but it's not like my regular work. I'm with a woman who could be Misha or Natasha, but doesn't seem like exactly either one. With her are these five women, religious women from somewhere, traveling. They are all wearing identical home-made dresses, cut from the same cloth, kind of a cheap patterned flannel. All of the ladies are wearing red dresses, except one of them, and the woman who is my friend or wife; those two are wearing white dresses. Somebody explains to me that they make these dresses themselves, and which color material they use depends on what group or tribe they belong to. My friend is just wearing one of theirs to be like them.

I tell them that I have to leave, because I have to walk to the bank. It's a long walk, probably nearly an hour away, and I ponder whether I have to do that, but apparently there is no other way. So, I ask them if they need any advice or help for when I am gone.

My friend asks where they can go get some lunch. I ask what they want to eat, and they say they just want "regular chicken". I'm not sure what they mean by that, but anyway it's not exactly what you'd find around here.

I look around, and there are several restaurants just within view on the same street. Then I remember that some weeks ago I went to one of them, the Village Inn, and had a chicken platter that sounds about right - it was a slab of chicken breast, probably breaded and fried, on a small rectangular platter with a salad and probably rice. In fact, we seem to be sitting in the lobby of the Village Inn right now, and suddenly the waitress arrives with our orders, and mine is the exact chicken platter I was thinking of. She gives me the platter, and some drinks or something for the girls, and starts directing us to a table.

I didn't mean to order this platter right now, apparently the waitress misunderstood, and that explains why we were waiting so long. I had ordered something that sounded really similar, and I suddenly realize how the mistake was made and without thinking, audibly exclaim "so that's why I got this chicken platter".

The waitress hears me, and steps back to ask me "why, wasn't that what you wanted?" but I don't want to correct her, and anyway now I want to show the girls this chicken platter, so I just pretend like I didn't hear her and slide into the booth where she directed us to sit.