My sweetheart wasn’t gone 30 minutes before I found myself parked next to a dumpster eating a burrito in the van. Three days of living alone was more than enough for the kitchen to become the garage again, with bikes stacked against the refrigerator and greasy rags in the sink. It is hard to resist that late afternoon ennui that leads to drinking beer in your underwear on the back porch while plotting against that beast of an orange cat that haunts your own cat’s dreams. Where does that orange cat hide out? I want to hit him where he lives when he least expects it, a barrage of green kumquats raining down on his tattered head. He is as big as a five gallon bucket.
Oh well, nothing to do but plod on, resist the torporous daze and go for a ride. With a rookie. And crush him. Some things never fail to cheer me up.
My honey cruises through Dothan, her faithful dog presses her face to the stout 70 mph wind, while the rookie and I cool off at the local rope swing, a couple of old guys trying not to break an ankle.
An adolescent gator watches like a wallflower from 50 feet away, which seems like plenty of space when you are in the air, but a bit too close once you hit the water.