on the BART to work yesterday morning–a couple sat beside me; the guy spoke loudly in a voice and cadence that reminded me somewhat of my dad’s. I strained to hear when normally I could care less.
“Do we know the Hendersons?” the older guy said. He was maybe in his late 50s, early 60s, stout, white hair, wore a trench, clutched a brief case and held a fairly high tech gadget for someone his age–it looked like an iphone. And it seemed as if he was trying to figure it out.
“The who?” the lady sitting next to him replied.
“The Hendersons. Do we know them? Do we ever talk to them? That isn’t Billy’s parents that we met in blah blah blah.”
“No. I’m trying to read this, ok?” The lady continued reading the paper.
