Do you like gum?
Because, every time I look at you, you seem to be chewing.
Sometimes, I’ll bike along with you as you drive, and, every time, you’ll reach into the glove compartment, take out an Excel pack, popping a piece into your mouth.
Snap, pop, snap.
Usually, you drive into town, and, when you walk into the bakery—that little one down by the bookstore—all you do, ever, is look. Never buy. You walk around in a circle, stop briefly and smile down at the cupcakes, then turn and march back out.
Why?
‘Cause, let me tell you, those macaroons are pretty damn good.
