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“You did not text him.” “He did.” Lassiter gave the straw another suck. Then he metronomed his head back and forth, his blond and black hair swinging. “He did, he did, he did.” To the tune of Hocus Pocus’s “amuck, amuck, amuck.”
“What’s going on with you?” “I’m developing the skills necessary to be a throw rug. This requires a great degree of horizontal work and concentration.”
As Devina narrowed her eyes and her temper rose, he smiled at her. And lifted one of his hands. With an elaborate show, he blew her a kiss, turned that palm around… and extended his middle finger at her. And thus the next generation of conflict was born.
