“I bet somebody makes a lot of money writing Mad Libs,” she said, brushing her rolled cigarette against her lips before taking a drag. “They’re probably fucking rolling in it.”
“I got these in the dollar bin,” I said. “I was just walking by and I saw them there and suddenly I wasn’t in San Francisco any more. I was back there. Back home — ya’ know? 2nd grade. 3rd grade. Somethin’ like that. Me and my sister, up way past our bedtimes, sprawled out on her bed listening to WAAL on her clock radio — which I wanted like anything because all I had was a stupid dinosaur clock with the T-Rex pointing out the time — giggling ourselves stupid.
She exhaled. Pulled her knees up to her chest and stretched her sweatshirt over them so that just her freckled feet stuck out.
“I wonder how much money they make, you think?”