FHC Fridays

Yesterday I sat down on the curb outside a grocery store under a lukewarm sun as cars drove by and pumped me full of expended gasoline. The stains on my jeans camouflaged me into the gum splatter cement and it was only my cigarette smoke that gave me away to the mothers carrying children by the hand, the father’s and bastards buying beer in their golfing clothes, the girls in too-shorts and flip flops smacking away the last days of the summer. Dusty clouds had covered the chilly sky all day and for once working outside required me to wear a shirt. Look at that asshole and his Ford truck, shiny black and new, chrome running board that’s never seen shit packed treads on the bottom of a boot. I flicked my cigarette in it’s direction, at least it went farther than my thoughts, and put my hands behind me on the cement. I wanted to drink.