Daddy, make a picture

$80 worth of red stuff, of no use to anyone. Fingernails for me, flowers for him - for me. Roses late, three short of a dozen. The twirly, twig things make up for the lack.

The gently lapping sun-kissed waves are swallowed by the demo below. It will be a W, but now, it’s a noisy mess. Man with hose passes for dust suppression, yet the clouds rise over the boulevard.

Three hours ’til dinner. Can we scam a free ride to the action. Action, he says, is in Miami.

The kids, the kids, the kids.

Upon arrival, I accidentally ate some of the lavender seeds (buds?!) infused in our welcome drink. Does that explain the mood? Or is it the rest?

Tight pink, clingly, haltery, midriff-bearing, blonde in salon complaining about the 19 hours of travel with young girl and baby. A quick hair dye will do the trick, but what if they wake up? 19 hours from where? Is she coming or going? How much blonder can she get?

Excavator clang. Where is the boy?

The kids, the kids.

These are days.