“There was a giant squirrel. It wanted my granola bar.”
At 8:00 PM, Chloe stood in the Harts’ living room, barefoot on their Persian rug, wearing Mrs. Hartwell’s cashmere throw like a ceremonial robe. She had the surround sound on low—just enough to feel the bass in her ribs. She’d selected The Lost City , a dumb, glossy adventure movie that cost $20 million to make and required zero brain cells. In her left hand: a glass of the dad’s limited-release Hazy IPA. In her right: the remote. fucking the babysitter
Chloe nodded seriously. “Classic squirrel behavior. What color was it?” “There was a giant squirrel
By 10:00 PM, he was snoring. She was back on the Persian rug. The movie had ended, replaced by the end credits of some forgettable Netflix original. She poured the last inch of her IPA into the sink—respect for the dad’s taste, but she had a 9 AM lecture. She had the surround sound on low—just enough
“The purple squirrel won’t come if I’m chewing.”