going Dutch
Around six-thirty, I was coasting down US Route 1, still dressed for the office (high heels, skirt, one of my precious few dress shirts gradually soaking with sweat) and thinking more about a problem from work than about traffic (bad). My brakes are emitting this embarrassing eeeerkkeeerrrkkkeeeeeeeeeeee. A car pulls up next to me, a little man rolls down the window and calls out,
"Are you Dutch?"
"What? No..?" I'm flustered and startled.
"Bist du Nederland?" He repeats, in case I didn't understand the first time.
"Ha! No..!" I'm more cheerful this time, and flattered.
"Are you Dutch?"
"What? No..?" I'm flustered and startled.
"Bist du Nederland?" He repeats, in case I didn't understand the first time.
"Ha! No..!" I'm more cheerful this time, and flattered.