"Do you want to buy some candy bars?" she asked, pushing open the screen door and stepping into the entry way.
"How much?" I asked. She wasn't exactly Google with the deets on this sale, although by now she had moved all the way into the house.
"What kind do you have?" I asked.
"Well, we don't have any caramel left," she told me, rifling through the box, coming in and setting the box on the table.
"I guess," I said, reaching for a few bucks. "I'll take two. ... What's this for?"
"Camp Miller," she said.
That made me feel better. I can stand for Camp Miller. But I didn't really want to donate $2 to, like, a band trip via Greyhound to Albany, NY. Better that type of thing falls short of its financial goal.
I gave her 2 dollars, she gave me two candy bars just as Chuck was coming down the steps.
"Heyyyyy," this future perfume spritzer at Macy's said watching him. "Does he want to buy any candy bars?"
"I just got him one," I told her, before she got any cozier and did something rash like plopping down on the couch and firing up the TiVo.
We live in a neighborhood where on a nice day, the streets look like the audience at a Miley Cyrus concert. We are probably going to have to start keeping a pack of $1 bills next to the front door to keep them all in ropes courses and soccer uniforms.