Five sweaters and a hat find me in the kitchen. Predictably, mother left cigarettes and no note, so I have one over orange juice.
And I make myself concerned suddenly with just where those same mothers have gone absent to, with the indoor weather something now intolerable.
Listening to Kenny Loggins’ brand of Rock ‘n’ Roll is like watching a high school kid play an elderly person in the Spring Play. We all know I’s not real, but we go along with it because it’s cute.