Commute

Can I ride into town with you? she said.
Sure, I said.
Ooh, she said, when we passed the golf course, hidden in the fog.
Nice morning for bow-hunting golfers, I thought.
I thought you’d like Corvus Corax, I said.
One of the songs even has a harp on it. At least I think it’s a harp, I said.
No harp in the liner notes, she said.
I don’t even know what half these instruments are, she said.
I’d really like to see them in concert, I said.
I let her out in front of the garbage incinerator, near where she catches her subway. There was this peaceful lull of about 30 seconds while she gathered her stuff.
A woman1 walked into the offices of the garbage incinerator place2.
Dad, she said, as the woman disappeared into the shadows.
Huh? What? I said.
I’m telling mom, she said, laughing.
What? I said.
_____________________________________________

    1. [23 years old, 105 pounds, 5’5″, athletic, straight chestnut hair past her shoulders, bangs, pale skin, face simultaneously waiflike and jaded, aggressive and vulnerable, 34B-24-34, lavender knit top under beige suede jacket, black over-the-knee skirt with slit, dark brown suede boots (3 1/2″ tapered heel, pointed toes, gold braid detailing up the sides)
    2. glancing our way2a twice in the process

      2a. i.e. checking me out2aa

        2aa. Unless she was just thinking, (first glance) hey a dusty Dobl

more tics

So three of us have nervous tics, Gamma said.
Which three? I asked.
Mom pinches her nose, I do my stuff, and you scratch yourself.
I scratch myself?
I’ve been observing you. You scratch yourself all over.
Seriously?
(I scratch myself?)