My passenger is referring to the regime of Bush II, but she hardly fits the profile of a flaming lefty. She's almost 70, dressed with the great care some elderly people develop once it takes them about an hour to get dressed. She was an electronics technician in the Navy for 30 years. "My husband went to Vietnam five times on his own. They never had to draft him. This president who started this war wouldn't even go to war himself, nor would any of those around him. There are insufficient words to convey how deeply I disapprove of what this government is doing."
"Ma'am, I'm a writer, or at least I like to think so, some of the time. And I haven't found sufficient words for it, either." We laugh, and change the subject.
She tells me about her beloved little dog, Lacey, her "bosom companion." I tell her about my cat Pixel. "He thinks he's my boyfriend," I say. "He is an infallible judge of character. My ex-husband is the only person he's ever bitten enough to hurt. If, when you are my guest, he sits on you, you are more likely to be invited back."
I start unloading her many groceries, carefully putting them along the right side of the porch and the edges of the steps. "Oh, thank you so much for doing that. The others always just dump them right in front of the door. The logic of men, I suppose."
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