I do that all the time. I’m never quite sure what the point of doing it is, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m what my mother liked to call a muller, always chewing over something in my mind. When she wasn’t getting onto me for mulling, she was usually after me for daydreaming. It seemed my family wasn’t much in the way of imagination. I’d either hogged up every bit of it that had been allotted us when I was born, or I’d been adopted…perhaps switched at birth in the hospital? * * * * * The limousine began to pull away from my little English Tudor-style house, and I caught my reflection staring back at me through the tinted window. I cringed a bit, wishing my features were a little less delicate and a little more butch. My thin nose and high cheekbones would look more masculine with a stronger jawline. If it wouldn’t come in so patchy, I’d have tried letting some stubble grow in. I jumped at hearing a pop as the cork flew out of the bottle of Dom Perignon Nathan had pulled out of a small refrigerated compartment.
