I want the backstory, back when they walked in. Straight past the buggies and the baskets, past the candies and the creams, the bakery fiends and cold cut queens. I want the moment when she was leading him, when the him was tethered to his screen and she was slipping through their knees on urgent mission raspberry. I want their carpool conversation, their school is just right there between the childbearing homes. A daisy chain of vehicles riding up the curb, all the moms and dads and suburbans purr exhaust fumes out their end. Lobes all plugged with pods when their child climbs on in, on into his truck, flailing forwards for the belts, the latches, the handles, the ruts, the something to grab hold of, ascending with no grace. A grotesque grimace on her face when she's finally done it, plopped upon the cab of daddy's hundred-something truck when he blurts out a ...