Donna Henderson looked at the woman in hot pants, and hated her.
Donna didn’t say anything, of course, though she knew the other moms hated the woman in hot pants too. The woman in hot pants came every Saturday afternoon and sat in the bleachers with her legs crossed, her feet sporting a bright red pair of what Donna’s friend Karen called her “fuck-me shoes” and her blonde hair tied back in a silk something-or-other. And one of those macramé blouses nobody had seen since about 1966--as Rupert said, the kind of material that makes you try to see through the mesh--and the woman would sit there with her legs and chew gum. Actually chew gum! It gave a Lolita effect, which was even more infuriating, except obviously--
“Obviously,” said Donna’s sort-of-friend, Michelle, “she’s a little twat."
Donna wiped the white spittle from her leg. This was why Michelle was only a "sort-of-friend."
"Can you believe it?" came a small voice behind them.
Donna turned. Of course. It was the woman in the too-small cardigan who had spoken. The woman in the too-small cardigan was always there. Tagging along with her little smile, her delightful eyes, and her plunging neckline.
Donna hated the woman in the too-small cardigan, the way she would sit there with her Chinese fan and her neck, and that "do me" hat, the kind Rupert said they wouldn't even wear in Indonesia, which was clearly--
"Clearly she's a whore." Donna turned to see who had spoken. It was the woman in the mirrored sunglasses.
Continuation: Pacatrue/Evil Editor