The shirt was free save for a pair buttons. I had French-braided my strand in lieu of shape-shifting it into spot and now frantically applied cosmetics from my handbag as I rode.
I doubted I had a kind of Ginger-Rogers-Joins-Nirvana stare going.
We reached at the suburban house I had plunged Gabriel off at a few weeks ago. Pink balloons throbbed from the mailbox, and a mother in jeans and a sweatshirt bid goodbye as a little girl disappeared into the building.
Said mother then retreated to the enormous, soccer team–carrying truck driving in the driveway.
"Whoa," I said, taking it all in.
"I have never subsisted to anything like this before."
"You must have when you were small," Gabriel modified, parking across the street.
"Well, yeah," I fibbed.
"But it is a different occurrence at this age."
