Spring might be back, so I decided to break up the day of mouse clicking with some outside time. I took photos of leaves and whatnot while walking up the street to a greasy spoon.
The bartender, a woman of her late fifties, was on the phone crying. Her husband is dying of cancer and refusing a feeding tube.
A young thing relieves her to sit in the stool next to me, sobbing while counting her bank—which is short. She begrudgingly makes up the difference in tips.
Locals are strewn across the place, little chimneys with pronounced rural accents trying to console her. Hollering stuff about God, beer, and not being able to smoke in the new Lincoln.
Someone puts Patsy Cline’s “Fall to Pieces” on the juke and I feign interest in the community newspaper with a horrible print job. The burger was barely edible.
On the way back home, I see this sign in the alley…
If you can’t make that out, it says NO PISSING OR SHIT
I should’ve written about the leaves.
Current t-shirt idea: “Call me Sunshine”