At the end of summer, Claire moved out of her beloved and superbly-priced Mission studio, since she was heading off to business school.
She loaded her clothes, Craigslist-scored Le Corbusier chaise, and pre-med books into a rental car. We drove down to our parents’ place in Rowland Heights.
I thought the drive was going well, when I heard her say over my voice, “Do you . . . ever . . . stop . . . talking?”