years, Dad.”
 
 From daddy to dad
 
 in thirty seconds. We were
 
 strangers, after all.
 
 I Got in a Car with a Stranger
 
 A ’92 Geo, pink under
 
 primer, not quite a
 
 princely coach. Dad and
 
 I attempted small talk.
 
 How’s your sister?
 
 “Gay.”
 
 Sequestered on a California
 
 campus. When she outed,
 
 I cringed. Mom cried.
 
 You called her queer.
 
 How’s your mother?
 
 “Older.”
 
 Prettier, gift-wrapped
 
 in 40ish self-esteem, a
 
 wannabe writer and workout
 
 fanatic, sweating ice.
 
 How’s what’s-his-name?
 
 “Indifferent.”
 
 Either that or flat in my
 
 face, yet oddly always
 
 there exactly when I
 
 need him. Unlike you.
 
 And how are you?
 
 “Okay.”
 
 Near-sighted. Hormonal.