"Why is Bon Jovi walking toward us?"

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.

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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.

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Me: "Happy Father's Day!"
Dom: "Do you know something I don't?"

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From the eve's tangential stalking, a line I like:

"You decide how it plays out."