“Has he ordered yet?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And how is this young man related?”
All it takes is a flannel. One plaid shirt, and I’m one of the boys.
Strangers know no better. They call it as they see it, and they see what I want them to.
“Yes, SHE has.”
“Did he just call you sir?”
“Oh, this is my granddaughter.”
As soon as someone who knows me speaks, my illusion is destroyed.
They allow what they think they know to over rule the evidence of their own eyes.
He says it’s not about “Who you are” but “Where you belong. Where you fit.”
Lately, the only place i seem to fit comfortably is in your arms.
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