suburban utopia

Your car keys tumble out of your hand and hit the frozen ground. "Shit," you say, "this is a perfect morning," as the eggs slip out of the Whole Foods bag to meet the keys. As you stand there, yolk splattered, I laugh. The suede on my rather expensive boots is, now, also marred by your clumsiness. You glare, pleading for help, as I get in my car and begin negotiating my way to the parking lot's exit. "Shit," I say, "this is a perfect morning."

(cross-posted on www.sixsentences.ning.com)