The ordinary kind of odd
“The roaring twenties” she chimes, voice like magnolia soap bubbles and chinking crystal. Her dark bob, hard as a beetle shell, her eyelashes, Iver Johnson handlebars, and her face, with its silver-lining cheekbones, soft-focus foundation, locomotive kohl window sills, is as full as a marble moon. Her porcelain legs are kicked over the side of …
A hallmark of being in your twenties is driving a series of unreliable, questionable vehicles. A friend of mine had one car in particular that was little more than a street-legal golf cart. It was held together by equal parts luck and necessity. Her muffler fell off on the freeway, her windows would periodically drop …
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