( )

Lady in the store crashes into me with her cart like we're in a demolition derby. "Scuse me Sir." She looks up. "Er, Ma'am."

Moving along. (To the vodka aisle)

I was told by Architect's lady coworker whom I've been learning to bake cookies with in the evenings (a grueling process, by the way) that he's "very happily married and outdoorsy." Married I can deal with, but outdoorsy? "Camping, hiking, fishing, hunting," she rattled on, "living off a generator in the mountains."

That just sounds like a ball. Architect, his wife, rotting carcasses of slain animals, their teenage son that I probably have a better shot with, and no electricity.  Where does chain-smoking Marlboro Lights fit into all this?

"But he looks so artistic," I argued, "So thin, so lithe, ex-musiciany. So beautiful."

"What can I tell you?" she shrugged.

Moving along. (To the vodka aisle).