•“And while we’re at it, maybe you’ve noticed the nose thing.”
“What nose thing?”
“I swear I’m going stop this car and beat you to a pulp, so youwon’t have to worry about the hat or the hair or the nose thing.”
“No, really, what nose thing?”
“Dad’s nose thing. I don’t know about you, but I’ve alreadynoticed some of those Grand-Canyon-like pores and thoseunsightly black hairs creeping out like Shirley Temple’s tendrilsor something.”
“Oh, yeah, I see one in your left nostril now.”
“Shut up! As I was saying, I have this picture. I am finally atthat expensive French restaurant with that extremely goodlooking mail boy at my office, the one who could be on the coverof those really tacky romance novels, the one that has never hada pimple in his life—well, as we’re sipping our drinks, he says,“you have a piece of fuzz—or something—in your nose,’ and heproceeds to try to brush it off (by being the romantic that heis), but it’s attached, so he keeps pulling and pulling…it’s a totalnightmare.”
“Oh.”