In the pristine suburb of Willow Creek, Cassandra, a striking blonde obsessed with beauty rituals, discovered that Cleopatra bathed in milk to stay youthful. Spotting a tiny line near her eye, she decided a milk bath was imperative.
The next morning, she left a note for her milkman, Arthur: “Please deliver 25 gallons of whole milk tomorrow. No bottles. Just the bulk. I have a project.”
When Arthur arrived, he squinted at the note. Twenty-five gallons? Surely she meant 2.5. Concerned, he returned later and knocked.
“Good morning, Miss Cassandra. Did you mean two-and-a-half gallons?” he asked.
“No, twenty-five,” she replied serenely. “I’m filling my bathtub to look as young and beautiful as I did a decade ago.”
Arthur hesitated. “Do you want it pasteurized?”
“Pasteurized?” she gasped. “Goodness, no! Just up to my shoulders—enough to splash on my eyes without overflowing.”
Arthur blinked. She wasn’t joking—her logic simply ran on a different frequency. Nodding, he backed down the steps to fetch the milk, bracing himself for the most unusual delivery of his career.
As Cassandra hummed a tune of ancient royalty and prepared her dairy soak, Arthur pondered Cleopatra’s patience and wondered how she’d manage twenty-five gallons without turning the neighborhood into a milk lake. But to Cassandra, a little misunderstanding of terminology was a small price for the promise of a porcelain glow.