I have a not-so-secret weakness for voting with Gene. I think it is terribly romantic. Also, our polling place is on Beaver Street. Hot!
“Where are you guys off to?”
“Oh, we’re heading down to Beaver Street. Gene’s gotta check some boxes, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.”
“What about you? Aren’t you going to…uh…vote?”
“Yes, but I can’t seem to get the Department of Elections to take me off the absentee list, so I’ll just be dropping off my ballot.”
“Is this still a euphemism?”
“…Yes.”
Beavers are inexplicably popular heraldic devices.
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