What would I write if I were to write a story?
I don't know. Stories are hard, man.
So, let me tell you one. It was a hot August day. The kind of day when dogs lay around with their tongues hanging out and people head to the beach where they can strip down to the bare minimum.
I was in the passenger seat of my cousin's red Chevrolet Impala and we were cruising the country roads listening to Johnny Cash. We felt like time had stopped and we had escaped Folsom Prison.
I had the feel of freedom in my heart and the feel of sweat between my legs and the leather seat.
We arrived at the golf course in the middle of the day. We weren't there for long before it happened. Before SHE happened.
It might have been hot already, but the temperature in the red Chevy jumped another few degrees. She walked from the clubhouse to her black truck and those seconds were the moments of legends.
Before she climbed into her truck, she looked toward our red Impala. Our hearts were beating like each moment was an eternity. And then it was over.
She reversed, pulled out of the parking lot, and disappeared into the heat waves on the blacktop horizon.
We stared long after her black truck faded into the squelching heat. Like the cowboy in Folsom Prison, we were left alone in the red Chevrolet. And time kept rolling on.
