The pine trees are having a botanical orgy of epic proportions this year. Everything is yellow. The sidewalks are covered in yellow dust; we leave tracks on our stairs as we come and go—and yellow trails through the house. The grass is yellow. The cars are yellow.
Even people without allergies are sneezing and rubbing their eyes; people with allergies are breaking out the oxygen masks.
Last night I picked the Artist up from his evening class. As we walked toward my car, I remarked on the fact that she’s now yellow instead of grey. “Damn trees have been ejaculating all over my car,” I said.
The Artist guffawed. “I didn’t realize you knew what that stuff was,” he remarked.