She knocked on her daughter’s bedroom door and walked right in. It looked like a bomb site. The curtains were pulled shut, the air stuffy. Dirty cups and dishes were strewn here and there, books and clothes decorating the floor.
Sitting on the bed with earphone wires dangling, laptop balanced on her knees, was her Florrie, age 16.
“Did you like the birthday present?” her mother ventured.
Florrie looked up and pulled out one earphone. “Thank you very much but I hate the color; I like black. And the buttons— seriously? Nobody wears buttons anymore.”
“Well, I thought it was pretty.”
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