I can see the tail flip up, under. The front foot high, the curb, and clearance. It’s expected by the passerby.
I can hear the “oh em gee”s on the phones, the sizzle of the grills on the street along Palm Canyon Drive. My Sims crack each crack like lightning.
I can touch the hand of a kid I barely know, briefly; he is moving with conviction. I’ve seen him a few times before. He’s going to make this one, I know it. For ten seconds I can lead a cheer to see 17 stairs fall victim to the loitering victory of Simple Johnny. Whatever.
I can smell a Here’z the Beef! dog traded for 40oz of cheap malt liquor. Johnny wants a split but I didn’t know he was still with me. We bet against the bench a 22 year old nobody is looking beautiful on.
I can taste the blood of failure in my mouth as the board splinters, the 22 year old nobody oh em gees and leaves. We laugh.
We laugh, we laugh.
We split the cheap malt liquor anyway and somehow Manic Dave, Sam, and Selene are here and it’s 107 degrees at 8:30pm.
It’s 107 degrees at 8:30pm and I’m so fucking cool it’s sick.