It's beautiful here.
Driving. Agitated, annoyed, waiting to turn left to go to the gas station so I could take the lead, boyfriend following in his car, to the emissions place, one more little thing to do to finally feel like I could start the drudgery of everydayness, small large pressure of needing to be a good lead car, needing to make sure I could drive forward and backward at the same time.
I looked to the right. A man and a woman, sitting, talking. He was in a tank top, camo pants, tattooed like the sailors in pictures are, with a tan and a crew cut. She was ten years younger than he was, a big oversized sweatshirt like we used to wear in the 1990s with leggings except I couldn't tell if she had layered scrunched down socks. Jesus, those were so uncomfortable, with the Keds, so tight on your feet.
He was so bouncy, though, so nervous, it was like he was fifteen years old, his head in his hands, his legs up and down, his hands under his seat, rocking back and forth. She was cool, but couldn't get her cigarette lit. He was nervous. He liked her. Or he liked meth. In our neighborhood, odds are probably 49%-51% likes her/likes meth. I'm not judging; meth brings all the people of the world together. Some of us can't hang is all. If you can, rooty toot toot for you.
It is beautiful here, though. Really, really beautiful.