"Why did I buy so much stuff?" My mother asks, wonderingly, as she stares at the mess of bags on the elevator floor.
"Sales?" I reply, thumbing the button six. An exercise ball rolls out of a bag and into my foot.
"Oh, that." She kneels to put it back, balancing on her high pumps with her long dark hair escaping from the smart bun at the nape of her neck. "How was school?"
"Good, I guess." The elevator slowly rises, and I help her pick up the rest of the bags.
"You guess?"
"How's Mr. Albertson?"
"A chore." She replies, bluntly. "He can never find anything in his office, and I spend more time in there than my desk."
"That sucks."
"I suppose. It pays better than my last job, though. And this apartment is a steal." She glances sidelong at me. "You're not worried, are you?"
"Of course
