Remember the white, blonde-haired woman, with her leg up on the lawn mower, her black polka-dotted white halter dress, her repeated desperate tugs at the cord, and her hair, shoulder length and bobbed, hitting her face more violently with each pull? She looked like this.
On a sweltering day, wearing a thick wool skirt, with a cigar and iced-tea in hand on our way to see West Side Story. I say you'll get tongue cancer. I smoke too.
The woman beckons us from across the street. We direct ourselves across the patch of grass separating us from the road to her aid. Just as soon as we decide to help she gives one last yank and the machine starts. She waves jubilantly, thanking us for our intentions.
After the show we can't decide where to get ice cream.
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