If her name was Mary Ernston and she
lived on Ernston Road, how was I to know
she wasn't some millionaire heiress with a
bunch of dough to come? I jumped right
into that cool water - just thinking money
and her daddy's car. We wiled away the
hours at some tacky mall, and all she ever
wanted was a corn dog and some fries. I
tried to tell her food-courts blew, but she
never understood. Ah, a year and a half
of nothing, and I got nowhere at all.
Turned out she didn't have a daddy either.
He left long ago, and her mother drove a
shabby, twelve year-old Malibu. My luck.
Never even stained the seat in that heap.