Top-down summer afternoon drive to Spanish music, poetry in sweating rooms (the kind you can understand), meeting the third reader of my thesis, Bon Jovi and his metaphorical six-string spotted in the road, clams and serious damage and cookie dough. Bad Flomances, pure living.
My niece Jillian, age 5, to her twin, Matthew, who is covered in cake: "Can I clean you?"
She grabs the dish rag and chases him through the kitchen, grabbing the back of his shirt and swiping at his mouth.
Me: "Happy Father's Day!"
Dom: "Do you know something I don't?"
From the eve's tangential stalking, a line I like:
"You decide how it plays out."