My wife and I play a game while stopped at red lights. We dissect pedestrians crossing the intersection with the sharp scalpel of our wit.
I’ll point to a woman wearing Day-Glo orange. “Divorcee on the prowl. Check her slutty clothes and makeup.”
“That moron’s a drunk,” my wife chimes in. “See how he wobbles? And it’s only noon.”
But one day we picked apart an aging dowdy woman pushing a shopping cart loaded with all her possessions. She suddenly stopped in front of our car and pounded on the hood.
“At least I have a life!” she cried. “Do you?”