MISCEGENATE me

When he sees her spot the turd on the roof of the Lexus, he smiles. Didn’t even expect to, really. Thought he was putting it there perfunctorily, dutifully, just because something should mark the six-month anniversary of their divorce. But when she finds it and curses a tiny thundercloud into the cold air, he smiles involuntarily and broadly, watching himself in the rearview mirror. It’s a reminder: Don’t ever underestimate the peevish, childish pleasures. The pleasure of pulled hair. The pleasure of Indian burn. The pleasure of smashed toy. It’s so good, in fact, he follows her home, staying well behind her (he doesn’t want that turd on his windshield), seeking some further shabby gratification. Hey: Six months is an accomplishment. And he’s got an hour to kill before he picks up his niece anyway.