She drinks from a dirty glass and eats tongue between slices of old brown bread.
Music from the IRS hotline tinkles in my ear, as I try to write while on hold.
The blankets are rumpled and strewn with pie dishes and tin trays. People stand around talking and sizing each other up. Every conversation I'm a part of seems to involve a game that I don't want to play.
The sky growls thunder and hisses a promise of rain. Still, we must stop for frozen yogurt.
Depending on who you ask in the room, the dog is an adorable treasure or, at best, a nuisance.
Discovering that I need to fill out a five-page tax form that comes with at least 50 pages of instructions.
Along with the five-page form, there's another form. And another. There are always more forms.