This morning I was headed off to work, as usual. Diane was standing over little Isabel by the mirror, brushing her hair into a cutesy pony tail. I marched right past, but then did a double-take; Diane was wearing a ankle-length floral black skirt and a lime-green blouse. There was a faint aura about her of motherly, domestic, tranquility.
I stopped in my tracks: my hands encircled her with a portrait frame, and I uttered "Wow!" continuing on my way with the surprised snort from my cara spoza following me.
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