Smashed Windows

The Husband walked back into the house this morning and told me that the passenger window of my car had been smashed to bits. I said Really? in just that tone that the word suggests and then I walked outside and down the steps to the driveway where I stood at the car and peeled off a few bluish shivers of glass and let them crumble to the ground. It doesn't look like they stole anything, The Husband added, and I agreed. The boys circled the car, amazed and titillated at random crime, I went back into the house to deal with Sophie and The Husband left with Oliver to take him to school. He came back to pick her up and take her to school despite having a late morning event he needed to cater. I found a place to fix the window, lay a towel over the pile of glass in the front seat and drove west on Pico Blvd then south on La Cienega. I travel this way at least four times a week, but I had never noticed the auto place or the coffee shop that the man recommended I go to while I wait despite the fact that both had been there for nearly fifty years. I sat at the counter and ordered blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon with a cup of coffee and read a tiny version of The Family Fang on my phone.  The blueberry pancakes were excellent, and I had whole milk in my coffee. Two hours later, the car was fixed and I paid the owner $237.00. The Husband said his luncheon went well.  Neither he nor I had lost our marbles that morning but had, apparently, resigned ourselves to smashed windows.