just didn’t peg you for a Britney Spears fan,” she said, pointing to where my iPhone was strapped to my bicep and clearly displaying the cover of Oops!…I Did It Again. “Retro Britney too.” If I hadn’t already been roasting from the run and the heat, I would have flushed. I reached for my phone and tried to subtly change the song. She laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll just pretend I saw you listening to—what is it that men of God listen to when they run? Hymns? No, don’t tell me. Chanting monks.”
Is this banter?
