(152)

"Hey Mister, can I just have my Frisbee back?"

He was…Greenwich commuter train tired, hand on door frame, clean shaven, intelligent but single malt highlands not lowland scotch eyed—staring right through me.

She was…tan skin fading, looking smaller, visible under his arm, lithium draped in the highbacked Persian rug red ottoman, unaffectedly gazing in a direction unable to discern in the glance-time allotted.

I was…one foot and half of marble shorter, twitter usingly- younger, voice quivering a little more than before: “It’s just landed over your fence. In the back yard.”

If he just would unlock his eyes from mine, synaptic neurons messaging his leg sinews to pivot to his 3 o’clock, and as neck craned, the head would follow – I would run.

Genetics are facts really—hardcoded short stories that are written but have yet to be experienced and then told and retold. Running is not shameful when its biology.

I Squeegee Because My Dad Squeegees (124)

"I squeegee because my dad squeegees. Some people, they say it's the handle. Or they say, 'Nah, use this blade,' or 'Phil, use that blade,' but my dad, well he knew better. He taught me it's about the stroke. Any schmuck can pull out a Waller handle, a Visor blade -- none of that makes a lick o' difference unless you got the touch."

See, you position the wrist so it cuts the neck, then you apply pressure firmly in the center 'til it radiates to the edges of the blade. Ya gotta be consistent, man. Gotta be consistent. Then you maintain that pressure and you stripe vertically, evenly. Like paintin' lines on a highway."

"Hey Mister, can I just have my Frisbee back?"