“Daddy, Daddy, do you want a big dog or a little dog?” she asked. Long spindly legs, long brown braids, somewhat desperate in that younger kid manner of getting an adult’s attention. “Because golden doodles come in …,” and the conversation drifts away as they pass.
“I just don’t know what to do for me,” she said, with a touch of melancholy. Shorter green athletic shorts, petite, tight white shirt.
“You could do gravel, smooth gravel like they have over here.” People on bikes.
“So, anyway, what happened to you?”
“When I was on Prozac …”