You do get to that point where your only pleasure in life is busting the chops of young people. I was driving tonight down a quiet street near my home, past two lovely, thriving preteen girls–one of them a good 25 percent taller than the other, as can happen at that age. This taller one, slim and blond, had her hoodie sleeve stretched up over her fingers and was firing it like a weapon in various directions and mouthing, “Boom.” Finally she fired one off at me, which seemed like a challenge, so I stopped the car in the middle of the block. She froze, then took off running, although not very far. As she slacked off, I stepped on the gas and, because we were on a hill, my tires squealed. That set both of them giggling and running.
This rose and last evening’s light: