At a bus stop with no shade off Route 66 and la Buena Vista sad sat a younger man than I and little girl no more than half a dozen years old.
The wispy mustache the young fella bore barely covered the many spots he had at his lip and throughout his face and he wore a pristine cap, shoes, t-shirt and black jeans. He looked well pressed and put together.
She was a sight. Her fingers Hot-Cheeto red from the bag of treats why balanced at her lap. She wore a loosely fitting Cinderella dress with a staged sash. Plastic