Now
she and Gary were thigh to thigh on the worse-for-wear couch, trying to figure
out what was what. It was confusing as all hell. They needed to establish
Berkeley residency in order to receive services (receive services – Jesus), something that was done by choosing from
a byzantine list of ways to prove you lived here.
How about they
look at our bank account? Jesus, we have no money. That’s proof, isn’t it?
Come to think of
it, our bank statement is one way to prove it.
I was joking,
Gary.
I know. I’m just –
She
understood. It had been a fuck of a
day for him.
No comments:
Post a Comment