To lighten things up a bit, let me tell you about my friend "C."
We met through a mutual friend in the late '60s and ended up working together at an East Texas courthouse. "C" was a slender, very pretty girl, with black eyes, olive skin, and long, long, long black hair that always caught everyone's attention. She dressed well, too, in nice dresses and high-heeled shoes.
In those days, shopping in the town where we lived was limited to a handful of stores in the downtown area and another group of stores in a fairly large, L-shaped shopping center near the traffic circle. The shopping center was anchored by Sears at one end and Weingarten's Supermarket waaaaaaaay down at the other end.
One day, soon after I returned to the courthouse from my lunch break, "C" rushed in. She was a few minutes late, and she looked frazzled.
Me: "Where'd you go?"
"C": "I went to the shopping center, and I got hit by a car."
Me: "What do you mean you 'got hit by a car'? You mean your car got hit?"
"C": "No, I mean I got hit. I was walking across the parking lot and a car hit me."
Me: "Omigod, are you hurt? Are you all right?"
"C": "I think I'm fine, but the car bumped me in front of Sears, and I ran all the way to Weingarten's before I could stop."