It's 8:25 in the morning. I'm crossing Farragut Square, heels clacking, hair flying, and on time for work (which, to me, means late). A gentleman with no hair, craggy face, gray overcoat, and a ladies' sparkly totebag falls into step with me. He mutters:
"You walk like a pigeon."
"You heard me. You walk like a pigeon."
"Yes, sir, and you dress like a child molester."
He's taken aback, blinks twice, and I take the opportunity to slip in among the other commuters and dart across Connecticut Avenue.
Someday, I'll stop having battles of wits with unarmed men. Also, I wish I'd come up with something better. Anybody else want to give it a whirl?